Pulp Magazine #01 (1989 03) (CosmicJukebox)

PULP MAGAZINE

Mar ch_ 1989 * Number_One

CONTENTS

Editorial 2

by Robert M. Price

"They Don't Write 'em Like This Anymore" .... 3

by T. E. D. Klein

The Stones of Destiny 9

by Robert E. Howard

Light in the Jungle 19

by Carl Jacobi

Anti 25

by Hugh B. Cave

Heliograph 33

by Carl Jacobi

The Curse of the House 42

by Robert Bloch

Murder in Silhouette 53

by Manly Wade Wellman

EDITORIAL

Many fans of the pulps and their
authors seem to begin as adherents
of one particular genre, title,
character, or writer, and then be-
come interested in the whole mag-
ical pulp era and all its products.
It is for the delectation of such
all-purpose pulpsters that his first
(and only) issue of Pulp Magazine
is offered. A word now about the
stories .

T. E. D. Klein did not write
for the pulps; he isn't old enough.
But his "They Don't Write 'em Like
This Anymore," a TV treatment of-
fered but turned down by both CBS's
Twilight Zone and NBC * s Amazing
Stories , perfectly sums up what
we are trying to do in the magazine,
as you will see.

Robert E. Howard's "The Stones
of Destiny" is one of those silly
"confession" pieces he bragged to
Novalyne Price that he’d tossed
off for a few extra bucks, though
this one seems never to have been
printed before now. It has been
lost in the shuffle for a while,
misclassif led as a boxing story,
so denominated in Joe Marek's 1982
history and our own recent "Col-
lector's Checklist of Howard's Fic-
tion" ( Cromlech # 3) . For more of
this sort of stuff, see our Lurid
Confessions #1 .

"Light in the Jungle" is Carl
Jacobi's 1949 rewrite of an earlier
version, "Borneo Lamp," unsuccess-
fully submitted to Doc Savage in
1939. Alas, Short Stories bounced
it, too, in 1950. 1 But Jacobi's

fans will be glad to see it at last!

Hugh B. Cave must surely rank
in the top tier of prolific pulp-
sters, given his short story total

around one thousand . Here is a
brand new tale hot off his type-
writer, "Anti," originally aimed
at Violent Tales , but bequeathed
to us when that mag folded.

Jacobi is back with "Helograph,"
a story that just could not find
a welcome back in 1937 when all
within that single year, it was
thumbed-down by Dime Adventure,
Short Stories , Top-Notch , Thrilling
Adventure , South Sea Stories , Com -
plete Stories , Argosy , Doc Savage ,
and All-Star Adventure Magazine !
Now that might imply this tale is
not much good, but you know the
proverbial thick-headedness of us
editors! We think, clear-headedly
for a change, that you'll enjoy
it!

Our single reprint, Robert Bloch's
"The Curse of the House," might
as well be a new story, as you won't
find it in any of Bloch's short
story collections. Few Bloch sto-
ries can make that claim! This
one comes from the pages of Strange
Stories , February 1939.

Manly Wade Wellman's "Murder
in Silhouette" was written in 1933
and unsuccessfully submitted to
Street 6> Smith ' s Detective Story ,
Detective , Thrilling Detective ,
Underworld , and others. He decided
to rewrite it as a "spicy" detective
yarn, but that version did not ap-
pear until 1986 in our own Risque
Stories #4. Here is the straight
version.

So there you have them, stories
that did , should have , or would
have appeared in the pulps!

Robert M. Price
Editor

‘THEY DON’T WRITE ’EM
LIKE THIS ANYMORE 99

A TV Treatment in Two Versions
by T. E. D. Klein

Version One

A bleak day in early spring;
evening. The grey city block is
dominated by an expensive modern
high-rise. Inside its plush ele-
vator stands Martin Stone, tired,
greying, his face half hidden behind
the financial column of a newspaper.
He is returning home from a hard
day at the office; he wears a
trenchcoat and, in his free hand,
clutches a sleek leather briefcase.

The door slides open. Stone lets
himself into an apartment at the
end of the hall. It's posh, well-
furnished, a bit impersonal. So
is the peck on the cheek that Stone
gives his wife, who greets him in
the living room. She's middle-aged,
attractive, somewhat distant. Per-
haps a photo or two may hint of
a grown-up daughter somewhere —
grandchildren, even — but there's
no sign of children in this sterile
apartment. Somewhere there's an
old-fashioned picture of Stone's
Aunt Marian, dead these twenty
years .

Stone looks through the pile
of mail waiting for him on the cof-
fee table: Time , Fortune , Vanity
Fair , a few bills, some glossy cor-
porate reports . . . and then his
brow furrows. "What's this?"

"I don't know, dear — it just
came in the mail. Some kind of
promotion, maybe."

It's a large, colorful pulp maga-
zine, Science Marvel Tales embla-
zoned on the front — and it's in
spanking new condition. On its
cover, a tentacled creature reaches
for a partially-clad blonde; behind
them, a futuristic city glows
beneath the stars.

"April 1939," he says wonder ing-
ly, reading it off the cover. "Ob-
viously a reprint." He flips through
the pages. "Hmm, good job, too!
A perfect facsimile." Holding the
issue to his nose, he closes his
eyes, takes a deep breath, and
smiles like a man smelling a food
he hasn't tasted for years. "Mmm
. . . Smells just like they used

to, that wonderful pulp smell!"
He stares at the cover, shakes his
head. "God, I haven't seen one
of these since ... I must have
been twelve! Sure, that's right — I
remember using my birthday money
to send away for a subscription."

The magazine's arrival stirs
a flood of memories, which he re-
counts to his wife. Perhaps we
see some of them in flashback: mem-
ories of a smalltown boyhood during
the Depression, when Stone lived
with his stern and pious Aunt Mar-
ian. He remembers waiting for the
postman each month, snatching the
newly arrived issues of Science
Marvel Tales out of the mailbox
before his aunt saw them, sneaking
into the house with them concealed
beneath his jacket, and reading
them under the covers at night with
a flashlight. (He kept a secret
hoard of back issues behind the
Sunday school texts on his book-
shelf.) The magazine's illustra-
tions — especially the covers — were
so enticingly lurid, worthy of a
Margaret Brundage. His aunt would
never understand . . .

He remembers the day he got to
the mailbox too late — and the look
on his aunt's face as she eyed a
particularly salacious-looking cov-
er. She was greatly put out: not

3

4 / Pulp Magazine

furious, perhaps, but troubled.
The cover, the interior artwork,
the very titles of the stories —
"Spawn of the Vampire Queen," "White
Slavers from the Stars" — convinced
her that the magazines were the
sort of trash no twelve-year-old
should read. She wouldn't believe
his protestations that the stories
themselves were wonderful . . .

"I remember she wrote to the
publishers and had the subscription
terminated," says Stone.

"That wasn't very nice of her,"
says the wife. "After all, it was
your birthday money."

Stone nods, trying to remember.
"I know," he says. "It’s hard to
picture Aunt Marian doing a thing
like that. It wasn't like her.
She was strict, but she was fair."

(Perhaps he also recalls her
finding the issues hidden behind
the bookshelf. "She made me give
my precious collection to the Sal-
vation Army," he'd say, "but she
bought me a set of Dickens to make
up for it.")

"At any rate," he says, flipping
through the pages, "she was dead
wrong about this — it all seems pret-
ty innocent nqw." Smiling, he scans
one of the stories and begins to
read a passage out loud to his wife.
Distracted by some household matter,
she barely listens as he savors
the fantastic imagery and rather
florid prose.

At last she interrupts: "Who
do you suppose sent it to you?"

Stone looks up, puzzled, and
peers at the address label on the
cover. "I can't imagine."

"Maybe they still have your name
on the mailing list." t

Stone smiles. "Ha!! Not likely!
The magazine folded back in the
forties, just like the rest of 'em,
thanks to the wartime paper shortage
— it was probably on its last legs
by then anyway. Besides, I doubt
they could have traced me here.
I'm a long way from Rutherford's
Corners now."

A touch of sadness; he's remem-

bering how family fortunes had
changed with the Depression. They'd
had to move; the boy, growing up
too fast, hungry for money, had
forgotten things like vampire queens
and starships.

He gazes down at the magazine.
"In fact, this must have been one
of their last issues."

The pages before him reveal a
magnificent 1930s illustration near-
ly crowding out the text, a lush
pen-and-ink spread of a space ex-
plorer coming upon a beautiful woman
on a world with two suns. He reads
a few lines to himself, and sighs
with satisfaction. "Wow! They
don't write 'em like this anymore!"

Eagerly he settles down to read.

In the coming months, the issues
continue to arrive, each cover
stranger and more enthralling than
the last. May '39, June '39, July
'39, on into the fall —
representatives of another age,
yet every issue crisp and new as
if printed that very morning.

Late fall; the weather has turned
colder. Stone and his wife, laden
with luggage, tote bags, etc., from
some weekend excursion, stop in
the mailroom off the lobby to pick
up the weekend's mail.

Amid the bills and circulars
he finds a new issue of Science
Marvel Tales — October '39. He hur-
ries into the elevator with all
the pleasure of a schoolboy. "I
haven't seen you smile like that
in years!" his wife sniffs.

A small white piece of paper
flutters to the elevator floor;
it had been stuck inside the maga-
zine. It proves to be a note, writ-
ten in the jumpy, smudged lettering
of an old manual typewriter, on
stationery bearing an ornate old-
style logo: "Uncanny Productions —
Publishers of Science Marvel Tales."

"Dear Sir," it says, "We hope
you have enjoyed our publication,
and are sorry for the interruption
in your original one-year subscrip-

'They Don't Write ’em Like This Anymore" / 5

tion, which will terminate with
this issue." It's signed, "M. C.
O’Dowd, Circulation Manager."

"Impossible," Stone mutters.
"After half a century ..."

"What do you mean?" asks his
wife.

"They're claiming it's the sub-
scription I had when I was twelve!
The one Aunt Marian canceled."
He laughs. "Somebody's pulling
my leg."

The next day, at the office — an
imposing modern workplace that's
at once plush yet high-tech — someone
notices the magazine on Stone's
desk and ribs him: "What's this?
Are you reliving your boyhood?"

Embarrassed, Stone puts the maga-
zine away, like a schoolboy caught
reading a comic in class. But later,
noticing it in his desk drawer,
he calls his secretary in. "There's
an outfit in Chicago I want you
to check on for me." He reads her
the name from the front of the is-
sue. "Uncanny Productions ..."

"What's that?" asks the secre-
tary. "A video house?"

"No, it's a publishing company.
It's in something called 'The Blake
Building,' at — " He reads her an
address in Chicago.

"Are we thinking of buying it?"

"No, no. Just find out if it
still exists."

She reports back to him: there's
no listing for it. He's disap-
pointed. "Oh, well, I didn't think
there would be," he says. "I'm
sure even the address doesn't exist
anymore . "

"I wouldn't know," she says,
"but you could check on it your-
self. You're scheduled to fly out
there on Thursday."

Thursday finds him in Chicago.
Traveling from his hotel to a cor-
porate meeting, he asks the cab
driver to make a detour to the ad-
dress he'd read in the magazine.
"You sure you want to go over there,
mister?" the driver asks dubiously.
"It's a bit out of the way. That
whole area's due to be demolished.

It's like a ghost town these days."

"Yes, let's go. I want to see
for myself."

The street is empty, but the
tiny six-story "Blake Building"
is still standing, its bricks black
with age. "I hear they're tearin'
it down in a week or two," says
the driver. He waits as Stone peers
inside the ' darkened entranceway.
The building appears to be aban-
doned, but a directory on the wall
still bears the names of various
small-time establishments of a by-
gone age: a dry-goods firm, a hat-
maker, "radio repair," "voice les-
sons." The sixth floor lists Un-
canny Productions. It's a walkup.
Grimacing, Stone heads for the
stairs .

Six flights later he emerges
from the shadows, panting heavily,
and comes upon the offices of Sci -
ence Marvel Tales . They're a fan-
tasy of Weird Tales in the days
of Farnsworth Wright: small, shabby,
quaint — a total contrast to Stone's
super-smooth modern office. Dusty
framed paintings from Science Marvel
covers adorn the walls. A thin,
ragged-looking writer sits near
the entrance, nervously cradling
his manuscript. A secretary in
high-necked 1930s garb is pecking
at an ancient black manual typewrit-
er that looks like an antique.

She looks up. "May I help you,
sir?" Stone gives his name and
asks to talk to Mr. O' Dowd. He
notices, through a doorway, an ed-
itor in bow-tie and spectacles por-
ing through a tottering pile of
manuscripts .

O'Dowd appears, young, sandy-
haired, and harried-looking. "Trou-
ble with your subscription, Mr.
Stone?" There is something cur-
iously knowing in his eyes.

"No, no trouble at all," says
Stone, then smiles — "aside from
a short delay."

O'Dowd regards him gravely.
"Well," he says, "if I recall
correctly, we had some
correspondence on this matter from

6 / Pulp Magazine

a Miss Marian Stone."

"You’re absolutely right," says
Stone, astonished. "You folks cer-
tainly have long memories! Marian
Stone was my aunt. She's the one
who canceled my subscription."

"I beg your pardon, sir," says
O' Dowd. "Not canceled Inter-

rupted. You’d paid for that sub-
scription in good faith — with your
own money, if I’m not mistaken — but
your aunt felt you were a little
too young for it. So she asked
us to hold the remainder of your
subscription 'pending further no-
tification,' as she put it . . .

And that accounts for the delay."

"But who notified you to start
it again?"

"She did."

"Aunt Marian? When?"

"Why, it was, let's see . . .

around six or seven months ago."

"Impossible!" cries Stone.

"I saw her face to face, Mr.
Stone. She was right here in this
office."

"She's been dead for nearly
twenty years!"

"That may very well be, sir,"
says O’Dowd, "but she was here this
spring, standing right where you
are now . . . and she told me she

thought it was time to reinstate
your subscription. She said you
were finally old enough to appre-
ciate it." He stares at Stone in-
tently. "I know it's run out now
. . . but any time you want to,

you can renew. Whenever you de-
cide — "

"I don't want to renew," snaps
Stone, his head suddenly aching.
"I want an explanation! I want — "

"Remember, Mr. Stone," the other
interrupts, "it's nevet too late
for a renewal. It's just a matter
of wanting it badly enough." He
glances at his watch. "And now,
if you'll excuse me . . ." He turns
to a young man who has just hurried
through the door carrying a large
artist's portfolio. "Chief!" O'Dowd
calls, and the editor emerges from
his office. Ignoring Stone, the

two examine the young man's illus-
tration, a shimmering pen-and-ink
spread similar to the one Stone
had savored in the magazine, depict-
ing spaceships, monsters, a wide-eyed
young woman, a futuristic city-
scape, a sky festooned with stars.

Dazed, his head swirling with
the strange conversation and the
images from the picture, Stone sinks
weakly into one of the shabby lea-
ther chairs.

"Sir?" the artist asks. "Sir?
Can I give you a hand down the
stairs?"

Stone looks up, confused. "What?
Oh . . Oh, yes. Thanks." Half

staggering, he allows himself to
be led toward the stairway. The
artist, an earnest young man, is
saying, "It's so encouraging to
find my work appreciated by someone
like yourself, someone who's old
enough to know how badly we need
beauty in the world. That's what
makes working for Uncanny Produc-
tions so special — the sense of
reaching people, people of all ages,
from all walks of life. There are
a lot of magazines on the stands,
but there's nothing quite like Sci -
ence Marvel Tales."

Stone finds himself back in the
cab. The driver turns to him.
"Where to, mister?"

"Oh, uh . . . back to my hotel."

"Good. Glad to get outa here.
These old ruins give me the creeps!"

Dissolve to December: a snowy

street scene near Stone's downtown
office. Passing a dusty little
second-hand bookshop, he stops and
peers inside. A tattered copy of
Science Marvel Tales is lying in
the window.

"That's a valuable one," says
the shopkeeper. "The last issue—
they didn't make it through the
war. It'll cost you a bit."

"That's okay," says Stone. "The
cost doesn't matter. All I'm look-
ing for is a form, a piece of paper,
something . . . some way to renew."

He turns the stiffened pages.

"They Don’t Write ’em Like This Anymore" / 7

yellow with age — and there, opened
before him, is the haunting illus-
tration he saw in the Uncanny
off ice .

Version Two is set in a suburb
of Chicago, where an elderly man
is living in bored retirement with
his daughter and young grandson.
The high point of his day is the
arrival of the mail.

"Grandpa, what's this!" says
the boy one afternoon. In the mail
is a brand new issue of a 1930s
pulp, Sc ience Marvel Tales , ad-
dressed to the old man. He has
the same reaction as above: the

issue "even smells right." Though
he soon concludes that it's some
sort of reprint edition, at first
he half believes that it's his old
1930s subscription, somehow lost
in the mail for half a century.
He'd actually subscribed to the
magazine at age sixteen, using money
saved up from his newspaper route.
How he'd loved it then! But the
subscription had been interrupted
by the family's moving during the
Depression. "I remember how broken-
hearted I was when I had to sell
off my collection," he recalls.
"Probably got all of 25 cents for
it!"

He, too, soon receives a note
from the Circulation Manager: "Dear
Sir, We're sorry for the interrup-
tion in your subscription due to
your change of address, but we've
finally located you."

"They must have gotten your name
from their old subscription rolls,"
says his daughter. "You know how
mailing lists are. Once you're
on, they never take you off!"

The old man loses himself hap-
pily in the old stories and fan-
tastic illustrations. His grandson
is equally intrigued. "You really
love those stories, don't you.
Grandpa?" he says.

"I sure do," says the old man.
"They don't write 'em like this
anymore." He recalls how he'd al-

ways wanted to be an author, even
wrote up a bunch of stories — but
he'd never had the confidence to
submit any of them. "I probably
still have a few in the trunk up-
stairs . "

"Why don't you send them one,
Dad?" asks his daughter.

"Oh, no, they're not looking
for new submissions," he says.
"These are obviously the original
stories, you understand? From the
thirties . "

"Well," says his daughter, "so
are yours. And they're certainly
not doing anyone any good sitting
up there in the trunk. Why not
show them one? You never know until
you try."

But the old man does not; he's
sure that the downtown address at
the front of the magazine is long
since gone. The boy, however, is
unaware of this; to him the address
must be real. Dusting off an an-
cient manuscript from the grand-
father's trunk, he takes it into
the city.

The Science Marvel office is
as described above. The boy has
an amiable encounter with the ed-
itor, who assures him that the maga-
zine is always looking for the work
of new, undiscovered writers. After
a discussion of rates —

"A quarter cent a word."

"Wow, writers sure aren't paid
much, are they?"

"You're absolutely right, son,
it's a very tough way to make a
living. "

— he leaves his grandfather's
story atop a huge pile of manu-
scripts .

The following month, the magazine
fails to arrive, and the boy is
dismayed to learn that the office
building he'd visited has just been
demolished for a new high-rise.
He wonders where the publishing
company has gone.

Later, passing a dusty second-
hand bookshop, he notices a fly-
blown copy of a 1939 Science Marvel
Tales in the window and attempts

8 / Pulp Magazine

to buy it.

"That one's pretty valuable,"
says the bookseller. "It's the
last issue."

"Oh, no! You mean they went
under?"

"Afraid so, son. That's the
way it is with magazines. This
one'll cost you seven bucks."

"That's a lot of money," says
the boy. "How do I know it's really
so old?" He's sure the issue isn't
really from 1939, like it says on
the cover; it looks like just anoth-
er one of Grandpa's reprints, one

that simply got yellowed from the
sunlight. Then he turns the pages —
and his eyes widen with excite-
ment . . .

Cut to the family at home. "So
even though I knew it wasn't really
old," says the boy, "I paid him
anyway — because look . . Feat-

ured in the magazine, suitably il-
lustrated, is his grandfather's
story.

We leave the old man happy . . .
but wondering, just the same, how
long he's now going to have to wait
for the check.

Continued from p . 18 :

scious volition, I was cringing
and cowering dumbly before him,
my eyes tight shut, and my arm rais-
ed to ward off the blow my sensitive
reflexes told me was forthcoming.
The poor fellow supposed he had
wrenched my arm and was horribly
embarrassed, and most sincerely
and humbly contrite and apologetic.
I did my best to make him feel at
ease, but 1 could not explain, and
for all the rest of the day my
nerves were fairly quivering.

But I suppose my friends attrib-
ute my strangeness at times to art-
istic temperament, together with

my absolute refusal to wear low-
backed evening gowns — which would
reveal the lash marks that Gomez
put across my shoulders for all
time .

Four years have passed since
I rode across the Rio Grande on
Cabrona's horse. My slavery no

longer

haunts

my

dreams

, and the

whole

seems

as

a dim

nightmare .

It has

cost

me

much to bring up

those

horrid

memories ,

and I hope

that I

will

be

leniently judged.

and that my

tali

e will

aid other

girls who may be menaced by like
villains. Then I will be satisfied.

Continued from p . 24 :

for you upstream, near the mine.
When you found I couldn't be fright-
ened, you placed that written note
on the machine gun platform."

"Proof!" Wanger screajned. "You're
just talking words . . ."

"I said there was proof and there
is. The moment you came here Bainly
suspected you. Before you killed
him he had time to write a note
and leave it for me to see.

"He left that note on something
he knew you wouldn't destroy, Wan-
ger. On one of your own lamps.
You'll note the side of it is dec-

orated with paper.

"Bainly wrote on that paper,
using rice water for ink. It's
an old trick, used occasionally
by the government for secret com-
munications. The rice water doesn't
show, but when iodine is applied
to it, the writing becomes visible.

"You're coming downriver with
me after I have seen the native
kapalas and explained what happened.
Then I'm going to send a seaplane
up here with hospital supplies.

"But long before that, Wanger,
you'll be hanged for murder;"

THE STONES OF DESTINY

by Robert E. Howard

Time and again I have heard people
in conversation remark on the evils
of old-time slavery and express
gratitude that such practices have
gone out of existence. I listen,
silent, and wonder what those people
would say if I spoke — if I told
them — My life, my frightful exper-
iences are behind me, no one knows
except myself — or has known up to
this time. I could have kept my
secret until death had I so wished
and it is of my own accord that
I am baring my shameful past, in
the hope that my story will preserve
some innocent girl from a like fate.

Not long ago, a friend of mine,
just returned from the East, was
telling me tales that he had heard
and sights that he had seen of India
and other parts of Asia and of the
Barbary States of North Africa.

"The slave trade is rampant,"
said he, "in spite of all the Brit-
ish Government is doing toward stam-
ping it out. It is definitely known
that a secret 'slave road' runs
from the interior lakes to Suez
and Zanzibar, over which thousands
of unfortunate natives pass every
year, yoked and driven like oxen.
And in Zanzibar and other East Coast

towns

there are

secret

slave

mar-

kets,

where not

only

negroes

are

sold,

but white

women

also.

Cir-

cassian girls and Jewesses

that

the Turks sell to wandering slave
traders." He went on to relate
some of the cruelties he had seen
practiced on slaves, many of which
were not of a printable nature,
and added, "You'd better be happy
that you live in a civilized country
where nothing of the sort can hap-
pen."

I looked straight at him and

said, "Yes, 'that is what you think.
But are you right? Suppose I told
you that American girls are in as
much danger of slavery as Asiatic
women — suppose I told you that 1^
had been a slave ?"

To say that he was astounded
would be putting it mildly. He
believed me to be joking at first.
Just what prompted me to confide
the shameful secret which I had
so jealously guarded for years,
I cannot explain. Perhaps it is
the human impulse to share every-
thing with one of your own kind.
I do not know.

However, I told him all upon
a sudden impulse, as is my nature.
Obeying impulses has ruled and to
an extent ruined my life.

After I told him, he was thought-
ful for some time and said, "Don't
you think that you had better make
public your experience?"

I shrank at the idea. "How can
you think of such a thing?"

"I understand, of course," he
answered. "But we must sacrifice
ourselves for the general good,
to some extent. The disclosure
might save some child, innocent
as you were at the time. Would
not that be worth the humiliation?
I think that it should."

So, after long thought, I came
to the conclusion, difficult though
it was, that it would be selfish
in me to hide in my bosom facts
which might serve to guide other
feet aright.

I am an American, not by birth,
but choice. I was born in Russia,
in that fierce and savage country
east of the Volga River, but was
brought to America by an aunt when
so small that now my memories of

9

that dim other land are but a vague
haze of broad, snowy steppes, beard-
ed faces, shaggy small horses and
high kalpaks — hats of Astrakhan
fur .

My aunt was not the ordinary
type of European immigrant; she
was comfortably situated and her
removal to America was more to sat-
isfy a love for travelling than
anything else. I was selected from
my brothers and sisters to accompany
her, and the villagers predicted
that I would grow to be a fine lady
in the great new country.

After travelling rather exten-
sively in Canada, Mexico and the
United States, my aunt, on a whim,
decided to settle in New Orleans,
its cosmopolitan touch, its tinge
of the old world, somehow suiting
her rather romantic nature. We
lived in an old mansion, not far
off Canal Street, which she had
purchased from the descendants of
a once wealthy and prominent French
family, and my aunt opened an an-
tique shop in a genteel quarter.
My life for many years was placid
and uneventful. I attended a Greek
Catholic school, and grew up into
a slender, handsome girl, vain and
frivolous, to be sure, and quite
aware that I possessed charms be-
yond the average, but clean and
modest, and thanks to the teachings
of my aunt, the possessor of a con-
science that was really Puritanical
in its virtue.

I went to picture shows occas-
ionally with the young French and
Italian youths of the neighborhood,
and of course had my innocent flir-
tations, many of which were broken
up by the application of my aunt's
slipper — for she was ‘purely old-
world in regards to ideas of raising
children — but up to the age of sev-
enteen I had scarcely been kissed
by a boy. I tell all this in order
that you who read this may be len-
ient in your judgment upon me and
believe that the shame that fell
upon me was not because of my own
depravity, but if the fault was

mine, of my youth and lack of know-
ledge — perhaps, if my aunt had told
me more and switched me less — yet,
how could she know? How could any-
one know? And I — I was innocent —
you must — you must believe me I

I met the man who called himself
Juan la Ferez at a reception at
a house of a friend. He was slim,
dark, handsome, gallant. I, a young
girl just blossoming into womanhood,
shy, eager for attention, yet easily
embarrassed. He was Latin, my blood
is Russian — hot, fiery. There was
something in the way he glanced

at me with his passionate eyes,
something in his soft, caressing

tones, something in the way he
touched my hand, that fired my blood
and turned me dizzy with my first
realization of womanhood. He said,
too, that he was of an old noble

Spanish line of Venezuela and that
gave him a still more romantic ap-
pearance in my eyes. He asked for
and received permission to call

at my house, which he did the fol-
lowing evening. My aunt, at first
suspicious of him, soon thawed to-
ward him, as he insinuated himself
into her good will by his old-world
manners and gallantry of speech
and action. After a perfect sedate
evening, he took his departure,
and I stayed awake long that night,
recalling his every word, movement,
glance, the curl of his lips. I
was inexpressibly thrilled. When
I fell to comparing him with the
youths of my acquaintance, they
dwindled out of all comparison.

Those I had thought admirable
now seemed boorish, childish, un-
sophisticated. They shrank to in-
significance beside this cultured
man of the world. Vanity and de-
lusions! I went with my head in
the air thereafter, barely deigning
to notice the existence of such
humble acquaintances, who less for-
tunate had to content themselves
with "mere boys." He called at
my house, he took me to the theater,
he took me on excursion boats up
and down the river — he even sere-

The Stones of Destiny / 11

naded me beneath my window at night
in approved Latin style, strumming
a mandolin beautifully and singing
a haunting Spanish love song, while
the neighboring girls nearly per-
ished of envy, and I, deluded little
fool, traversed the seven peaks
of rapture. Naturally, I had been
warned of the passionate nature
of the men of the South, and had
been on my guard lest his fiery
nature sweep me off my feet. But
never was a courtship carried on
in a more decorous manner. Never
a word did he say that might be
construed as an insult, nor did
he in his actions ever offer the
slightest familiarity. And I — I
was disappointed! Sometimes I
thought he deemed me too much of
a girl to entertain any thoughts
of sex toward me. This idea I hotly
resented. But at last, one beauti-
ful moonlight night on the shores
of Lake Pontchartrain, he took my
hand, touched it to his lips and
asked me to marry him. I was thril-
led; ecstatic. My mind whirled
dizzily. Faintly I heard myself
saying, "No, no, Juan! My aunt
would never consent to it — I am
too young."

"No, no!" He had put an arm about
me now. "You must be mine, I cannot
live without you! I want you, my
beautiful little goddess, my lovely
child of delight!"

"My aunt—" I said faintly.

"She need not know until after-
ward! Come, my life, fly away with
me, my pretty little birdling! We
will be married and then return
and your dear aunt will forgive
us."

"You promise?" I asked, pit-
eously hesitant.

"I swear it!" he exclaimed. "I
love your aunt like a mother! We
will go, the good priest shall marry
us, then we will return for her
blessing. After that we will all
go to my estate in Venezuela.

"There you shall be little queen
of all you survey. Broad, fertile
lands shall be yours and a wonderful

hacienda, where you may reign like
a princess of the blood with innum-
erable servants to attend you. I
am wealthy and powerful. Come,
come now."

I was in his arms. He crushed
me in his embrace; for a moment
I lay passive, unresisting and trem-
bling, then as he pressed his lips
against mine ' and kissed me passion-
ately again and again, my hot blood
was roused and, throwing my arms
about his neck, I answered his kiss-
es. Then we heard my aunt, who
had chaperoned us, approaching;
she having lingered at one of the
refreshment stands to speak to a
friend while we had strolled on
to the lake shore. When she reached
us we were decorously discussing
some trivial matter and I said noth-
ing to her of the affair, neither
then nor later.

The very next night I got permis-
sion to spend a night with a girl
friend, and immediately after dark
met Juan upon the wharfs. I had
expected that he would have a priest
with him, but he was alone.

"Are we not to be married here?"
I asked in surprise.

"My love, I fear your aunt would
have it annulled if she knew of
it immediately," he answered. "And
there is another thing. There is
a priest, a man of my own country,
a wonderful man, who did me a great
favor many years ago and I promised
him he should marry me. You do
not mind? He is now at Corpus
Christi; just a little ways, we
can take a boat now, at once, my
love . "

I was so infatuated with Juan
that I would have sailed with him
to Australia, married or unmarried,
and it made no difference to me
whether a Roman Catholic or a Greek
priest married me. Yet I shrank,
from natural modesty, at the thought
of travelling with an unmarried
man, even my fiance. But when he
took me in his arms, and coaxed
me with endearing phrases, my re-
sistance melted. No woman can with-

12 / Pulp Magazine

stand the man she really loves,
in anything, and I did love Juan,
though later I came to hate him
as only Russian women can hate.

Yet neither then nor later did
Juan offer me undue familiarity.
I passed upon shipboard as his sis-
ter, and we occupied separate state-
rooms. Young as I was, I knew a
little, a very little, of mankind's
attitude toward women and thus it
was that I saw in Juan a true
knight, a man better and nobler
than other men.

We landed at Corpus Christi with-
out event, and Juan left me at a
hotel while he went forth, osten-
sibly to look for the priest who
was his friend. Soon he returned
with word that the priest was at
Brownsville, temporarily, and sug-
gested that instead of waiting for
him, we motor over to that town.
I readily agreed, for I had found
the trip exhilarating and wished
to prolong it.

So Juan hired an automobile and
we proceeded to Brownsville. There
again he sought the imaginary priest
and, coming back, told me the priest
was holding a council or conference
with other priests from the interior
of Mexico and would not be at lei-
sure for an hour or two. Juan then
suggested that we cross the river,
so that I might get a sight of Mex-
ico. To this I joyfully agreed,
and we crossed the narrow bridge
that spans the yellow, muddy Rio
Grande at that part. The middle
of that bridge marks the boundary
line; on the one end flies the Amer-
ican flag, on the other the flag
of the Republic of Mexico. The
guards at the Mexican end, burly,
mustached fellows, heavily armed,
offered a marked contrast to the
clean-cut American youth of the
American end. These Mexicans stop-
ped us and searched the car for
contraband, eyeing me insolently.
And one of them said something to
Juan and nudged his companion.
Though Juan denied it, it seemed
to me that the men knew him. The
town of Matamoros lies back from

the river, a bare squalid place.
Since then I have seen other Mexican
towns along the border, and some
of them equal American cities of
the same size. But Matamoros more
resembles the stronghold of bandits
than anything else. Everywhere
I saw dirty, ragged peons, mostly
barefooted; many carried rifles
or pistols and many wore
cartridge-belts strapped about their
waists. Before a drab barrack a
few languid soldiers pretended to
mount guard and here and there among
the many saloons rurales with gaudy
costumes drank mescal and boasted.
The town is roughly built about
a large square, on one side of which
is a cathedral, while the rest of
the square is taken up largely by
saloons and gambling halls. To
one of these Juan took me, though
it was with much trepidation that
I entered.

We sat at a table and a woman
brought us drinks. She was a hard-
faced Mexican woman of middle age,
and after taking a long glance at
me, she spoke rapidly to Juan in
Spanish, which I did not understand.
He laughed, shook his head, and
answered her, repeating the name
Gomez, upon which she nodded under-
standing^ and went away. I sipped
nervously at the beverage brought
us and threw frightened glances
about at the rough, loud-spoken
Mexicans that thronged the bar.
Several spoke to Juan familiarly
and he laughed and answered in the
same manner. I did not understand
and I was more perplexed when I
asked to leave and he merely laughed
and told me we would later. The
Mexican behind the bar would glance
at me and laugh loudly.

Then a man entered, the first
glance of whom inspired me with
fear. He was a large Mexican of
very swarthy complexion, very gau-
dily dressed. To my angry aston-
ishment he came across the saloon
at once and seated himself at our
table, sweeping off his wide som-
brero to me in a manner that seemed
mocking and sarcastic. Then he

The Stones of Destiny / 13

and Juan engaged in a long conversa-
tion, during which the man seemed
much pleased, often bursting into
a loud guffaw, and slapping himself
on the leg. Then before my eyes —
and even then I did not understand —
the Mexican took a number of bank-
notes and gave them to Juan, who
rose, laughed, and walked out with-
out another word or glance at me.

The Mexican laughed, too, and
said in English, "You are very pret-
ty, senorita; I am Senor Gomez that
you shall know better, much better."
And he laughed as at a huge joke.

"But where is Juan going?" I
asked, frightened and perplexed.
"We were waiting for a priest, to
be married."

Gomez laughed louder than ever
and shook a finger at me in a ro-
guish manner. "Ah, that Juan, he
is a mischievous fellow and one
can never depend on him. You would
much better forget all about that
Juan, who is probably making love
to some other girl right now, and
regard that good Gomez."

"I don't understand — " I quav-
ered, rising.

"Ah, but you shall," he answered
blandly, and he too rose. "Come
with me. You little fool, Juan
will not return. He is on his way
to Galveston right now."

Dazed and bewildered, I followed
him, hardly knowing what I was do-
ing. There was a very fine auto-
mobile outside the saloon, with
a Mexican youth as chauffeur.

Gomez opened the door persua-
sively and bade me, "Enter, senor-
ita." But I drew back, frightened.
Then he showed his true nature for
the first time.

"Curse you!" he swore. "Must
I be humble to a silly wench? Do
as I say!"

And to my horror he caught me
up in his powerful arms and tossed
me into the automobile. I strug-
gled and screamed, but though there
were rurales, soldiers and white
men, bartenders, in sight, they
merely laughed. Gomez climbed in

beside me.

"Scream, you little fool," he
said angrily. "No one will heed
you; drive to the ranchero and waste
no time."

Gomez scarcely had a word to
say, though he often looked at me
and laughed, during the whole trip
which lasted t nearly all day, though
the driver drove at a high rate
of speed. His ranch lay many miles
from the border and the road lay
over a dreary expanse of sand, cac-
tus, greasewood and chapparal
bushes .

It was night before we emerged
into slightly more fertile country,
and came to his ranchero, a huddle
of corrals and ' dobe peon houses,
dominated by a rather pretentious
hacienda, built, like most of the
kind, about an inner court or patio,
and set off by deep cool verandas.
For a woman who came to it of her
own choice, it might have seemed
fine and inviting, but to me it
was a prison house for three long,
shameful years.

Gomez led me into the hacienda,
and waving his hand, said, "Juan
said you should be queen of a ha-
cienda, eh? Then so you shall be!
Ha ! Ha ! "

"You are not going to keep me
here?" I asked, unbelieving.

"Keep you here!" he exclaimed.
"Not keep you here? After paying
that shrewd fellow Juan more pesos
than any wench is worth? Faugh,
don't be a fool, or think Gomez
is one. Juan has brought me other
girls, but none so pretty. You
I shall keep."

"No, no!" I exclaimed. "You
can't, you can't mean it, you
wouldn't be so cruel."

"No?" he asked, with an ugly
lift of his lip. "Of that you shall
be judge."

Food was served to us in the
wide dining hall by a withered
crone, and afterwards Gomez led
the way to a room whose furnishings
showed that it had been occupied
by women before.

14 / Pulp Magazine

"This shall be your chamber,
senorita," he said. "You will note
that the windows are barred; more-
over, you will but waste your time
with the door for it will be bolt-
ed." Then he bowed himself out
and I looked about me at the room
that was to be part of my prison
for long. It was handsomely fur-
nished, but, as Gomez had said,
the windows were heavily barred.

Very little of anything I saw
or heard made meaning to me, so
numbed were my mind and soul at
the disclosure of Juan's perfidy,
which I could not now doubt, though
I fiercely denied to myself. Ah,
the vileness of men! How could
Juan deceive me so, I who had trust-
ed him with the innocent faith of
a child, I who had come to him with
open arms and raised lips — Juan,
wherever you are, God have mercy
on your soul if we ever meet!

Completely outdone, soul and
mind and body, I grew sleepy in
spite of torment and began to dis-
robe. I thought of Juan, my girl-
ish mind still too dazed to realize
the full extent of his treachery.
I had taken off my dress and laid
it across a chair, when to my utter
horror the door opened and Gomez
entered the room. Crimson-faced
with shame and outraged modesty,
I shrank back, vainly striving to
shield myself from his lascivious
gaze.

"Ah, how beautiful — and how un-
usually modest," he said. "Yet,
my dear, your charms are still ob-
scured too much. Let us adjust
that." And he came forward and
took me by the arm. At the touch
of his hand on my bare flesh, I
very nearly fainted, such was the
loathing and fear he inspired in
me. I jerked away from him and
shrank back until the wall stopped
my further flight. He advanced,
smiling in a way to make my very
flesh crawl. Young though I was,
I saw his intention in his eyes
and my mind reeled with terror.

I threw out my hands, eyes star-

ing in horror, as he approached.
"No, no!" I begged. "Not that,

please, please!" Then as he laid
his hands upon me, I slipped to
the floor before him, clasping his
very feet, begging and pleading
with him to spare me. He merely
laughed at me.

He put his hands under my arms
and raised me to my feet. Then
he took me in his arms and showered
kisses upon me, hot, lustful kisses
under which I writhed helplessly.
With a strength born of despair,
I resisted him and though I was
a weak girl and he a strong man,
my resistance seemed to enrage him.

"You had better learn who is
master here," he said angrily, "and
I suppose you had better have your
lesson now. They all require it
sooner or later, and the sooner
you know enough to be meek and sub-
missive, the better it will be for
you. "

He flung me violently to the
floor, and stepping to the wall
took down a cruel quirt such as
Mexican vaqueros use. With this
in his hand, he approached me. I
cannot give a detailed narrative
of what followed. I do not even
like to think about it. All my
life I had been used to gentle and
courteous treatment; my most severe
punishments had been my aunt’s span-
kings. Before I left the ranch
of Gomez I found more depths of
more hells than most women know
exist, yet I cannot say that any
surpassed that in which for the
first time in my life the lash de-
scended upon my shrinking shoulders,
leaving a long, red welt across
my bare, tender skin. That first
whipping was a scarlet purgatory,
which other lashings equalled but
never excelled. I fainted before
it was over, and how long he flayed
my unconscious form, I do not know,
but I came to myself lying upon
a couch. My first impression was
of a hideous burning torture that
extended over my whole body; my
next, of Gomez standing over me,

The Stones of Destiny / 15

swishing the whip restlessly, a
cruel glitter in his eyes.

"Very good," he said, grimly.
"Now are you ready to acknowledge
your master or shall we continue
the lesson?" And he made a motion
of raising the whip.

I shrieked and writhed, holding
out my hands imploringly; I was
wordless from fear and torture,
I could only whimper and prostrate
myself before him.

"Very good," he said again. "Then
come here to me." And in terrible
fear of another lashing, reeling,
half able to stand, I went to him,
half insane from shame, yet over-
powered by cringing fear — I came
to him.

Yes, I came to him, with lagging
steps and head hung in shame, my
face hid in my hands.

There is little use to reiterate
by details my life on the Gomez
ranch. The telling of it would
drive me half insane and now I do
not see how I lived through it.
Juan la Ferez was a smooth and

treacherous snake; Gomez was a
beast. For three years I endured
the fullest extents of his beast-
liness. I was a slave, and nothing
more or less, the slave of Gomez,
betrayed and sold by Juan la Ferez.
Then I knew why Juan had never at-
tempted anything out of the way
upon me. It was because he wished
to present me to Gomez pure and
unsullied, and thereby gain a higher
price for me; for Gomez was that
type of man that delights in the
ruin of a virtuous girl. My inno-
cence filled him with a beastly
delight and he never tired of in-
venting ways to outrage my modesty
and decency.

I have heard tales told by old
slave negroes of the ways of cruel
plantation men in the slave days
of America, but none of those cru-
elties ever surpassed those to which
I was daily subjected. Gomez de-
lighted in the fact that I was his
slave. He made no attempt to gain
my affection. He did not want it.
He wanted me to fear and cringe

to him and his wish was gratified.
His lust did not stop at the grati-
fying of his fleshly desires. He
was undoubtedly the most cruel fiend
that ever existed. I have since
studied psychology, and now know
that Gomez missed very little being
a degenerate in the utmost meaning
of the word. « He was a man who de-
rived pleasure from the torture
of others. The whippings he gave
me afforded him as much gratifica-
tion as the caresses he bestowed
on me. But I knew nor cared nothing
of such science then. All I knew
was that Gomez was my master, that
he was a beast who stopped at noth-
ing in the fulfillment of his wish-
es, that if I resisted him in any
way I would receive a lashing. And
not merely because of disobedience
did he whip me, but often as not
in the way of cruel sport, for as
he had said, I had my lesson and
knew enough to obey him in his every
word. Sometimes when intoxicated
upon mescal, he would enter my room
at night and torture me in various
ingenious ways until sometimes his
brutality would actually render
me unconscious.

And very often he would bind
me and lash me into insensibility.
He maintained all the power of a
feudal lord upon his ranch, and
the unhappy peons were as much his
slaves as the serfs of the Middle
Ages. Ignorance, poverty, serfdom,
that is the curse of Mexico today,
as it has been for ages.

There was a whipping post in
front of the peon huts, where dis-
obedient serfs were punished, both
men and women; and Gomez showed
the depths of his depravity when
he bound me there and lashed me
before the assembled peons, for
not even a Kurd nor a Tatar would
so publicly degrade one of his girl
slaves before the eyes of inferiors.

How I lived through those three
years, I do not know unless it was
because of the blood that is mine.
I had often wished that I had been
a born American, but I do not be-
lieve that any American girl could

16 / Pulp Magazine

have endured what I did and lived.
But I come of a race whose women
are used to cruelty. I was only
going through what countless thou-
sands of Russian women have gone
through. Though I, myself, had

never had to endure abuse, yet the
blood of endurance was in me. Gomez
himself knew that, in a vague way,
and he paid me the dubious compli-
ment of telling me that while he
had always soon grown tired of other
women, he had never wearied of me.

"But I will break you!" he used
to say. "I will tame you!"

I could not see how a woman could
be more "tamed." I hastened to
comply with his every wish, I cring-
ed and fawned on him to avoid pun-
ishment, and after cruel whippings
I crawled to him and kissed his
hands. And so I told him.

"Yes," he answered, scowling,
"you are wise! You are not like
other women; I never saw a Russian
girl before, and I never saw a woman
like you. You are pliant, yielding
— and the more a thing gives, the
more difficult it is to break. You
are my slave now, but if you should
escape tonight, in a few months
none could ever tell that you had
been used as I have used you. Your
attraction would be as great as
ever; you would forget me, men would
fawn upon you and you would be as
happy as if you had never heard
of Gomez. But I will break you
yet! When Gomez puts his stamp
upon a woman, she wears it for life!
She is broken! And so shall you!
I will break you forever." I be-
lieve that it was this strange ob-
session to "break me" that kept
him from killing me in his drunken
furies.

Sometimes there were visitors
at the ranch, Caballeros from neigh-
boring ranches, and then high and
drunken revelry was held. Of these
I will say nothing; sometimes women
were brought and the licentiousness
was indescribable. I learned the
language to some extent and found
that a while girl captive upon a

Mexican ranch was no novelty. Such
things had gone on for years; the
wealthy ranchers of the country
were always in the market for pretty
girls and such beasts as Juan la
Ferez supply their demand. The
position of these victims was as
I have described my own. The lech-
erous nature of their captors was
always coupled with the feeling
that they are wreaking vengeance
upon their powerful and hated neigh-
bors across the Rio Grande, which
is merely the vengeance of barbar-
ians .

Sometimes, too, women were
brought to the ranch by Gomez, who
only stayed a few days, bold-faced
Mexican women of the better class,
usually. Then was added the further
humiliation, that of forcing me
to attend them with the duties of
a maid. Some were kind, in their
way, pitying me and sometimes car-
essing me; some indifferent, some
spiteful, wreaking on me insults
and petty abuse. But I soon grew
indifferent to kindness or abuse.
I lived in a perpetual state of
terror. I was afraid of the peons
of the ranch, of the crones that
cooked for Gomez, of the women that
Gomez brought there — but all this
fear was dominated and overshadowed
by my fear of Gomez himself. Three
times I tried to kill Gomez, once
with a rifle I snatched from him,
twice with a stiletto secured the
same way. And each time I failed
and was rewarded with such a ter-
rible lashing that I could never
muster courage again after the third
attempt. Then several times I at-
tempted to escape, even starting
across the desert on foot. Each
time I was brought back and at last
Gomez bound me to the whipping post
and whipped me nearly to death.
I was left hanging there for hours
until the world was merely a red
sea where torturing waves beat end-
lessly upon my nearly lifeless form.
There it seemed that flesh and blood
could stand no more and I wished
to die. But I could not. Eventually

the bloody fogs lifted and I came
back to the world — and to Gomez.

That night one of his banquets
was held, and in the state I was,
I was forced to attend. There I
saw for the first time Juan Cabrona,
a rancher whose holdings were some
miles distant. I had cause to re-
member Cabrona later. Then I had
been with Gomez for nearly two
years .

Gomez, like most wealthy Mex-
icans, dabbled more or less in the
politics of the country, but either
he was skilled in picking the win-
ning side, or remarkably lucky,
for all the time I was at his ranch,
there was never a raid of bandits,
never an "investigation" by Federal
troops. True, the country was
sparsely settled and unimportant
from a military standpoint.

But altercations occurred among
the ranchers themselves and at last
Cabrona and Gomez had an open break.
That was about a year after I had
seen Cabrona at the banquet. Gomez
expressed his displeasure toward
his former friend very often in
my hearing, and I began to almost
like Cabrona, simply because Gomez
hated him, though I knew Cabrona
was no better than my master.

But one day a note was smuggled
to me by some means, the manner
of which I never learned, and the
contents were as follows: "Doubtless
you wish to escape from Gomez. If
so, steal out of the hacienda just
after dark, and walk straight east
from the lower corral. I will meet
you with horses and conduct you
to the border. Cabrona."

My mind was in a whirl upon read-
ing this. I half suspected Gomez
of a cruel trick; half suspected
that Cabrona was merely working
to get me into his hands, for I
could not see why he should wish
to aid me. But after much thought
I determined to follow the instruc-
tions, come what would; nothing
could be more vile than my present
situation and if it were merely
a change of masters, Cabrona could
be no more cruel than Gomez. Then

I was confronted with the problem
of getting out of the house alone
and unwatched. The doors were never
bolted upon me, but I was always
closely watched, though of late
I had shown so little spirit that
the vigilance was slightly relaxed,
under the impression that I would
not dare try to escape. But that
evening, Gomez, being displeased
at the wife of a peon, took her
to the whipping post to give her
a flogging, with the result that
everyone went to watch it, leaving
the house quite unguarded. I slip-
ped out, just as dusk was falling,
and hurried to the lower corral,
unobserved. There I halted for

an instant to glance back at the
hacienda which I hoped I was seeing
for the last time. The great house
reared dark, silent and forbidding,
a shameful prison wherein I had
been despoiled of my girlhood, my
innocence, my purity.

Beyond it, before the huts, there
was a glimmer of torches lighting
up a scene such as I had seen time
and time before — a scene such as
I had often enacted as the chief
victim. Ribald shouts and obscene
jests sounded from the assembled
servants and peons as Gomez carried
out the flogging with his usual
cruelty and indecency.

It was a scene characteristic
of that vile place that I carried
away as a mental picture.

I struck off due east, as di-
rected, and after walking some dis-
tance, came upon Cabrona waiting
with horses. He bade me mount and
I did so, whereupon he led the way
toward the river, swinging wide
to avoid the Gomez possessions.
We rode all night with scarcely
a word between us, and dawn found
us upon the bank of the Rio Grande.
Cabrona briefly directed me how
to avoid the quicksand in crossing,
and was turning to ride away when
I stopped him.

"But why did you do this thing
for me?" I asked.

"To avenge myself upon Gomez,"
he answered. "I care nothing for

18 / Pulp Magazine

you, or any other gringo woman.
I'd have kept you myself, only Gomez
would have stolen you back. Now
get across the river as fast as
you can and keep on riding, or the
vaqueros of Gomez will come up with
you and all my task will be for
nothing. "

So saying, he turned and rode
away. In a sudden panic, as I
thought of pursuit, I urged my mount
recklessly across the river, and
raced the already weary horse until
the Rio Grande was merely a thin
line of silver in the distance be-
hind me. I could hardly realize
that I was free. I laughed, I sang,
I waved my arras. Anyone seeing
me would have thought me insane.
Free! After three years, three
centuries! Three eternities! Ah,
no one can appreciate that freedom
is the greatest of all blessings
unless one has been like myself,
a slave.

It did not matter that I was
among strangers, and without money;
I was free in my own land.

Some small town I came to even-
tually, and sold the horse Cabrona
had given me for enough money to
pay my fare to New Orleans. I was
asked no questions nad I vouchsafed
no explanation to anyone. The shad-
ow of my fear of Gomez was on me
and it rode me hard, though I knew
it improbable that he would follow
me. But I did not draw a free
breath until the train pulled into
New Orleans and the old familiar
sights met my eyes. Three years?
It seemed rather three hundred
years. Three years of shame and
torture since I had left New
Orleans, young, pure, vibrant for
life and love, a child .of seventeen;
I returned a woman of twenty, and
far older in experience, violated,
defiled, broken like a flower upon
the stones of Destiny.

In fear and trembling I approach-
ed my aunt's house. How would she
receive me? I had left without
even leaving a note; she had heard
no word from me in all the time.
Would she drive me out again? Could

it be that she would forgive me?

Three times I walked past the

house, afraid to enter; the fourth
time I went to a side door, by which
I used to enter after school. I
opened the door stealthily and en-
tered. My aunt sat before the wide
fireplace. She had aged a great
deal. For a moment I stood there,
trembling, then she saw me; her

knitting tumbled from her hands,
and I fell into her arms and lay
upon her bosom, my face hid In her
shoulder, while she caressed me,

murmuring endearments over and over

at me as she had when I was a child.
Poor soul, she had thought me dead
and not even to her, though it tore
my very soul to deceive her, could
I admit the full depth of my degra-
dation. I lied to her, for I told
her Juan la Ferez had betrayed and
then deserted me. Yet I cannot
blame myself overmuch, for the full
truth would have unhinged her mind,
I fear. I did not stay long in
New Orleans where the people knew
me . My aunt gave me money to go
where I wished, promising to join
me wherever I went. I went east,
to New York. The sight of a Mexican
or even a Spaniard or South American
unnerved me for years afterward.
There in New York I found oppor-
tunity to develop my musical tal-
ents, and in a short time found
myself independent, admired and
sought after. Gomez spoke truly
when he said I would not break.
But for long afterwards, my actions
must sometimes have startled people.

For instance, I could not abide
the touch of a man's hand and I
often irritated my instructors by
my insistence that they should not
touch me. And the mere sight of
a man with a riding crop or whip
of any kind in his hand actually
nauseated me. I remember at one
time how startled a very good friend
seemed, when for a joke he came
up behind me unawares and seized
my arm in a rather rude grasp. In
an instant, and without any con-

Continued on p . 8

LIGHT IN THE JUNGLE

by Carl Jacobi

At high noon Simms throttled down
the launch engine and gazed ahead
at the fourth of the strange warn-
ings. It was a dried native head,
mounted on a pole of bamboo, pro-
jecting from the silt-heavy water,
close to the river shore.

Simms frowned and glanced un-
easily out under the tattered awn-
ing at the walls of jungle, somno-
lent and poisonous green under a
brassy sun. This was Murut country.
North Borneo's most undisciplined
district, but never before had he
seen those outlawed war trophies
displayed with such flagrant aban-
don.

For six days now he had been
forging slowly up the Kinabatangan.
His passage had disturbed clouds
of snipe, and occasional groups
of macaque monkeys had crowded to
the water's edge to watch him sol-
emnly. But he had seen no sign
of human life — only those four
shriveled heads with their mute
threat of trouble. Now he switched
off the ignition and listened. Puls-
ing to his ears over the arboreal
roof came a dull distant throbbing.
Drums . . . !

Five minutes later the launch
was beached in the ooze of the op-
posite bank, hidden by overhanging
liana vines. Considering the warn-
ing, Simms told himself it would
be foolhardy to continue on the
river. With the Station so close
he could take the bush trail and
return for the launch later. He
leaped ashore, after a few moments'
search found the trail, and began
to follow it rapidly due east.

As he went on, he found himself
mulling over the whole enigmatic
situation. This was Murut country,

yes, always a danger spot to the
transient white man. Twenty miles
farther upriver he could have under-
stood the drums and those heads.
But here, almost within shouting
distance of the District Officer's
Station, this attitude on the part
of the tribes was a puzzle.

Had the District Officer come
into trouble? It was what the Res-
ident in Sandakan feared, D.O. Bain-
ly having failed to send his regular
quarterly report, and it was why
Simms , acting government inspector,
was here.

A tall, well-knit man, Simms,
with a lean incisive face, dark
grey eyes and coffee-colored hair,
made dull by long exposure to a
tropic sun. He wore a suit of
whites which achieved a military
appearance in spite of their shape-
lessness. A Cawnpore solar topi
was tilted on his head with the
puggree cloth hanging free down
the back of his neck. He carried
at his waist in a canvas holster
a Spanish Ruby revolver to which
he had become attached through long
service .

The trail curved and twisted,
following the windings of the river.
Once Simms climbed a tree and fo-
cused his binoculars on a clearing
on the farther shore. He could
see a fire and what appeared to
be a crowd of natives milling about
it. But the distance was too great
for details.

An hour later he came upon the
Station: three nipa-thatch huts

surrounded by a stockade of pointed
piles; from the roof of one of the
huts the Union-Jack hung like a
limp dishcloth. There was an air
of desertion about the place in

19

20 / Pulp Magazine

spite of its orderly appearance.

As he advanced to the gate a
pistol shot cut screeing through
the silence. A voice yelled:

"Get away from that wall, you
damned native, or 1*11 . . . "

The words died, and the gate
was flung open. Simms found himself
facing a haggard white man, clad
in shorts and singlet. For an in-
stant they stared at each other.

"What's wrong here?" Simms said
at last. "You're not the District
Officer. Where's Bainly?"

The other grabbed his hand and
pumped it vigorously. "No, I'm
not Bainly. Come inside, and I'll
explain . "

Five minutes later Simms sat
in the main quarters of the District
Officer's hut, listening to the
stranger haltingly tell his story.
After the harsh sunlight of the
compound, the latticed room was
dark, cool and restful.

"My name's Wanger," the man said.
"Bainly 's dead. He was killed by
natives five weeks ago."

Simms waited for him to continue.
Wanger was a heavy, thick-set man
with loose jowls and deep-set eyes.
There was a tiny rectangular scar
on his temple and the fore part
of his head was bald, giving him
a scholarly appearance. He had
an avian trick of lowering his head
suddenly and then peering upward
as if looking through non-existent
spectacles .

"I'm a trader," Wanger went on.
"I came in from the north coast
with a couple of dugouts full of
trade junk for the natives. I usu-
ally don't go this far incountry.
Here, as you know, the river is
tabu to white men, and, the govern-
ment upholds that tabu.

"But business wasn't so good,
and before I knew it I had reached
this Station. Bainly put me up,
and a few days later hell broke
loose . "

"Native uprising?" Simms broke
in quietly.

Wanger shook his head. "Worse

than that. Plague! An epidemic
broke out In the three villages,
and the natives began to die like
flies. Bainly said It was bubonic.

"Anyway, one day one of the
chiefs' wives died, and that cinched
It. The devils came up here, and
Bainly went outside the stockade
to palaver. They got him with a
blow pipe dart, carried the body
away. Then they killed the Sta-
tion's three police boys. I've
been living next to that machine
gun ever since."

For a long moment Simms sat there
in silence after that.

"It's too bad," he said. "But
why didn't you clear out? You must
have had chances?"

Wanger shrugged. "Two reasons.
I figured someone should be here
at the Station, and I thought I'd
better hold on until relief came.
Mainly, though, I wanted to wait
until things quieted down."

Simms nodded thoughtfully. "When
I get back to the coast. I'll see
you're properly rewarded."

That night Simms lay on his cot
in the warm darkness and went over
the situation again and again. No
one needed to tell him that he had
walked into a trap from which there
was probably little chance of re-
treat. A bubonic outbreak among
the interior tribes was serious
business. It meant mutiny, head-
hunting outbreaks. Even now, the
Muruts, giving way to superstitious
gods, had probably closed off the
river trail behind him.

Sleep would not come, and he
rose at length and went out into
the compound. The night was humid
and heavy with a threat of the com-
ing monsoon. Far off a Skipping-on-
the-ice-bird sounded Its queer call.
A leopard coughed somewhere, and
thunder was a muted growl deep in
a black sky.

Suddenly Simms tensed. A darker
shadow had appeared over the top
of the stockade. Before Simms could
raise his voice in alarm, something

Light in the Jungle / 21

was thrown to the hard earth of
the compound with a dull thud. Then
the shadow disappeared.

Simms darted to the stockade
gate, unlatched it and slipped
through. He had a momentary glimpse
of the shadow racing into the jungle
trail.

On bare feet he sped in pursuit.
Once within the wall of trees the
blackness seemed absolute, broken
only by a faint gleam of sky light
probing the overhanging foliage.
The government inspector moved by
instinct, bred from years of wilder-
ness experience.

On he ran. If his quarry were
aware it was being followed, it
gave no sign. The jungle thinned
as it descended toward the river
shore .

An instant later there was the
splash of a paddle, and a one-man
dugout jerked out from the bank.
Simms gave a hard sigh of defeat.

Was the intruder a Murut from
one of the three villages? There
seemed no other answer. And yet
a Murut would hardly attack the
Station alone.

Simms made his way back and with
a puzzled scowl let himself through
the gate. Then he saw what had
been thrown into the compound. A
dark object lay close to the stock-
ade wall. The white man got a match
out of his pocket, lit it and went
slowly rigid.

He was staring down at all that
was mortal of Fenton Bainly, the
District Officer. The split nos-
trils and stitched eyelids showed
only too plainly the man had died
by torture.

The match went out. On legs
that were dead things, Simms entered
the house to call Wanger.

Morning came with a thick swamp
miasma that hung over the Station
like a veil of gauze. You could
smell the rotting vegetation of
the river, and you could feel the
heat clinging close to your body
as if it were another garment.

Simms sat perspiring in the main

room of the hut, making out the
first part of the report he must
take back to Sandakan. The ink
smudged and the paper was damp from
drippings from his forehead. As
he paused in his writing, his eyes
fastened absently on the lamp in
the center of the table. It was
a cheap lighting instrument, made
probably by Malay craftsmen, an
urn-shaped vessel with the pottery
sides decorated with colored rice
paper.

Wanger noted his gaze and nodded.
"My stock and trade," he said. "I've
got a couple hundred more just like
it in my dugout at the river."

Simms looked up. "You mean you
trade these to the natives? But
what do they do for fuel?"

A short laugh came from the trad-
er. "Oh, they're filled with kero-
sine," he explained. "It'll last
a while. After that the natives
can use 'em for ornaments. Come
on down to the wharf, and I'll show
you my stuff."

The two men left the room and
followed the little path to the
jetty. Wanger 's two prahus were
drawn up on the shore. Wanger moved
to the stern of the nearest and
drew out a large case, filled with
lamps identical to the one in the
District Officer's hut. There were
other articles: knives, bolts of

colored cloth, cheap beads and trin-
kets.

Later they returned to the Sta-
tion. After the noon meal, Simms
lit his pipe and announced his de-
cision.

"I'm going to take a look at
one of those villages," he said.
"If there's bubonic there, I want
to see how bad the outbreak is."

Wanger stared. "Are you mad?"
he gasped. "That stuff's the most
contagious thing in the world. Be-
sides, the Muruts will murder you
before you get a chance to talk."

"i'll take my chances on that,"
Simms replied.

He took the dugout belonging
to the Station, paddling alone up-

22 / Pulp Magazine

river. When he reached the first
kampong , a hoarse shout went up,
and he found himself in the center
of a milling crowd of natives.

"Take me to your kapala , " he
said in Malay.

A moment later he stood before
a tall Murut chief. The native
wore a pigeon’s blood ruby suspended
from a thong around his neck, a
bracelet of rubies on his wrist.

"I understand an evil sickness
has come among your people," Simms
said. "Perhaps I can help you."

The kapala ’ s eyes glittered,
and a snarl came to his lips. "The
sickness has been caused by the
white tuans . They have broken the
river tabu."

Simms shook his head. "The tabu
has not been broken. The government
has ordered that no one go beyond
your villages."

In the end, bluff accomplished
it. Sullenly the kapala escorted
Simms through the village. Simms
saw it all, the sick, the dying,
and then made preparations for his
return.

As he was about to leave he no-
ticed a well-worn path leading away
from the village. Something,

curiosity perhaps, prompted him
to follow it across a dried-up
stream bed up into higher ground.
Presently he came upon a field of
rocks and gravel, stretching away
on both sides in a natural glade.
The path ended here, and Simms
stepped closer to examine the stone
formations. Granite and crystalline
limestone. The government inspector
had a layman’s knowledge of geology
and even without a glass he could
see traces of spinel, graphite,
scapolite and mica in t»he limestone.
Several crude stone hammers and
other native implements lay
scattered about. Simms lit his pipe
and smoked a moment in deep thought.
Then he turned slowly and made his
way back to the river.

Back at the Station he found
Wanger in a state of nervous ten-
sion.

"We've got to get out of here,"
the trader said, "while the getting
is good."

Simms shook his head. "I'm afraid
it’s too late for that. On the
way back I passed a big party of
natives coming from downstream.
They didn't see me because I hid
in the reeds. But it doesn't take
much guessing to know what they’ve
been up to. They've closed off
the river probably with a bamboo
fence. The first white man that
tries to tear that fence down will

stop a bunch of blowpipe darts.

We're cut off."

It was odd, Simms told himself
as he went out into the compound.
Bubonic usually didn't penetrate
this far from the coast. As for

the natives, the three villages
in this district were comparatively
tich and although untamed, seldom

under normal circumstances caused
the District Officer much trouble.

He climbed the little ladder
to the six-foot platform of nibong
wood where the machine gun was
mounted. From this vantage point
the gunner could sweep the trail
over the walls of the stockade.
He spent a moment examining the
gun, saw that it was loaded and

in working condition.

And then, about to descend, his
eyes caught a roll of paper tucked
under one of the extra ammunition
belts piled on one side of the plat-
form.

The paper was the official gov-
ernment stationery of the Station.
Printed in the upper left-hand cor-
ner was the name: FENTON BAINLY.

And scrawled below it in pencil
were the words:

"East trail. Follow line from
stockade to big Seraya tree one
half mile, to clearing."

Simms crammed the note in his
pocket and went down the ladder,
lips screwed tight. Bewildered,
he walked the length of the compound
several times. Then casually he
moved to the stockade gate, un-
latched it and let himself out.

Twenty yards before him he saw

Light in the Jungle / 23

now the Seraya tree towering above
the roof of the jungle. Simms sight-
ed a line from the gate to this
tree and began to move forward
slowly.

The jungle was a clammy oven
in the afternoon heat. Beyond the
Seraya tree he found an old trail,
indistinctly marked, leading onward
in a straight line.

Had Bainly guessed that relief
was due to come from the coast and
left this note where he was sure
the government inspector would find
it? Such a supposition would mean
that the District Officer for some
unknown reason had refused to take
Wanger, the trader, into his con-
fidence .

Suddenly the way before him open-
ed into a wide clearing. No living
thing was in sight. A step at a
time he began to pace slowly for-
ward .

When it happened, it was his
strength of arms that saved him.
The ground suddenly opened up be-
neath his feet. Plummeted downward,
he reached out by sheer instinct
and grasped a vine that trailed
along the jungle floor. The vine
held, and he dangled there in space.

It was a deep pit dug into the
ground, the opening at the surface
hidden by light branches and under-
brush. At the bottom was a double
line of wooden stakes, sharpened
to razor points. Had Simms not
clutched that vine, he would have
been impaled in a dozen places.
A leopard trap!

Desperately he attempted to draw
himself out. The vine, under his
weight, gave way in a series of
little jerks. His feet dug toe
holes while gingerly he strove to
shift his balance. Once he looked
down, only to turn his eyes away
again quickly. An inch at a time
he clawed his way upward, heart
pounding, breath searing in his
chest. When he had almost reached
the surface the vine slipped once
again and he had to start anew.
But this time a new firmness entered
the length of leafy vegetation.

He gave a last surge upward, drew
himself over the edge and lay there,
panting .

At length, haltingly, he made
his way back to the Station. Then
without a word he handed the trader
the note he had found on the machine
gun platform.

Wanger glanced at it, then threw
it down casually.

"I should have warned you," he
said. "Bainly had a terribly poor
memory and was forever writing notes
to remind himself of things. He
must have left that paper there
so he wouldn’t forget something."

The drums were pounding louder
that night as Simms and Wanger sat
in the District Officer's hut, talk-
ing in low tones. The carbide lamp
suspended from the ceiling had run
out of fuel, and Simms had lit two
of Wanger' s trade lamps.

Abruptly the trader jerked to
his feet. "We'll lose our heads
if we don't get out of here soon,"
he cried. "We've got to try it.
Now!"

Simms shook his heact. "I'm stay-
ing. If I ran out now, all the
years it's taken to build the Sta-
tion's influence would be lost en-
tirely."

Wanger lit a cigarette nervously.
"Okay," he said, "I'll stick it
out too, but if we aren't both mur-
dered by tomorrow maybe I can change
your mind."

Shortly after eleven o'clock
the government inspector yawned,
took one of the Malay trade lamps
and went to his room. He shut the
door behind him, placed the lamp
on the table, sat down on the edge
of his cot and began to take off
his mosquito boots. To all appear-
ances it was an ordinary pottery
lamp with colored paper ornamenting
the sides.

He found himself absently looking
at the pottery base of the lamp
as he bent to his task. An ordinary
Malay lamp, covered with rice paper,
colored gaily, it was sure to catch
the eye of any Murut inlander to
whom it was offered. Suddenly Simms'

24 / Pulp Magazine

eyes lingered on a certain spot
on the lamp base. He took a small
magnifying glass from his pocket
and brought it into focus. Abruptly
with a low exclamation he crossed
to the medicine cabinet, took out
a bottle of iodine. Then slowly

and deliberately he

began

to smear

the lamp's paper

sides

with

the

brownish medicine.
Twenty minutes

later

when

he

extinguished the light and lay down
on the cot, his lips were set in
a grim line.

The room was dark, lit only by
a faint glow of starlight from the
window. Outside insects droned.
Simms lay on the cot motionless.

Abruptly stealthy footsteps
sounded in the outer room. The door
latch turned, and the door swung
slowly open. A tall figure was
silhouetted on the threshold.

To the cot that figure advanced.
One hand rose slowly upward, and
then Simms acted. He rolled off
the cot even as the hands clawed
downward. He leaped erect, drove
out both fists and closed in.

With an oath the man threw him
off, jerked out a revolver and fired
point blank. A slug seared across
Simms' shoulder, and a stream of
hot blood began running down his
arm. He bent down, dove for his
assailant's legs.

On the floor they fought silent-
ly, each clawing for the other's
throat. An upraised knee ground
cruelly in Simms' groin. Once again
the man triggered the gun, but the
shot went wild.

The government inspector feinted
with his left and dove his right
to the other's jaw. Back and forth
they exchanged blows. > Then Simms
sensed rather than saw the unguarded
jaw and struck with every ounce
of strength he possessed. There
was a short cry and a moan, and
the man slumped backward. Weakly
Simms got to his feet.

Next morning Wanger sat in the
main room of the District Officer's
hut, his wrists tied behind him,

his ankles securely bound.

"You see, Wanger," Simms said,
"I might have fallen for your story
if you hadn't tried to carry the
details too far. It was you who
brought bubonic up here. You knew
the river was closed off to white
men by a rigid tribal tabu. So
you released the plague bacilli
in the three Murut villages, plan-
ning that when the sickness had
weakened or wiped out the natives,
your activities and the passage
of your stolen property would not
be interfered with.

"Stolen property, Wanger. The
ore found in certain varieties of
crystalline limestone. In a word,
rubies. In some way you learned
that the Muruts in this district
had been working a rich ruby mine
for generations. The trade goods
you brought in your dugout were
just a blind. Except some of the

Malay lamps. With those you did
a simple trick. You chipped off
a piece of the handle, making it
sharp to cut the hand, and you in-
fected it with the living bubonic
germ. You yourself were immune
to the disease.

"Once the plague was introduced
among the natives, the rats and
fleas which are always to be found
in every kampong would do the rest,
spread the sickness. Then with
native resistance nullified and
access to the ruby mine opened,
you planned to step in, work the
mine for a time, bring the stones
back to the coast and smuggle them
past the customs."

"You're guessing at all that,"
Wanger snarled. "There isn't a
stick of proof . .

"There is proof. You killed
District Officer Bainly when he
got in your way, and you tried to
frighten me out of here. It was
one of your own natives who sneaked
up the stockade wall and threw the
body into the compound. The rest
of your crew is probably waiting

Continued on p . 8

ANTI

by Hugh B. Cave

"Leora. My dear. Can't you see
you've invited every thief who reads
the Sun to come for what you've
got in this house? Can't you see
what you've done ?"

Tom Darcy, an old friend of hers
on the college faculty, was talking
about a story that had appeared
the day before in the Sunday paper.
In the House & Garden section. About
her new home on the shore of Robin
Lake .

"I don't care, Tom. We don't
care." Sixty-two-year-old Leora
Truesdale smiled contentedly at
the small black cat cradled in her
thin white arms. "Daddy would be
so proud of me, designing my own
home and having it written up."

"But letting the reporter write
about your heart attack? With a
picture of you on crutches?"

"Well, she promised not to men-
tion those things. And I'm annoyed,
yes. But what can I do about it
now?"

What, indeed? she asked herself.

It was a handsome house, the
writer had said. All the homes
at the lake were handsome, but even
in such spectacular company hers
stood out. She herself had designed
it. Also supervised its construc-
tion.

Imagine being sixty-two years
old and doing something like that!

But while walking about the un-
finished grounds she had suffered
a mild heart attack and come a crop-
per in the rock garden. Result:
one fractured ankle. Lucky for
her, the house was ready for occu-
pancy. When released from the hos-
pital she had been able to move
into it. After, of course, re-
questing a leave of absence from

her teaching job and learning to

get about on crutches.

She had not paid for the house
and its exquisite furnishings out
of her salary, the story almost

maliciously pointed out. Junior-
college teachers of architecture

didn't make that kind of money.
No, no. As the only daughter of
a wealthy industrialist, she had
inherited buckets of money and his
mansion when he died. Before put-
ting the mansion up for sale, she
had moved most of its furnishings
and all its precious paintings to

her new home.

Tom Darcy had gazed at one of
the paintings that day— the day
after the story appeared in the
paper — and said with 4 sigh, "Well,
let's hope no harm's been done,
Leora. I'll be coming around every
day, and you have your phone if
you need me. And your beloved Anti
for company, of course."

At sixty-four Tom was two years
older than she, and both were un-
married. They had long been good
friends. Without his offering to
do her shopping and help her out
in other ways, she could not have
moved into the house so soon.

Before departing that evening,
he touched his lips to hers and
scratched Anti behind one black
ear. "I didn't mean to frighten
you . "

"I'm not frightened, Tom. Re-
ally."

And she hadn't been — then.

But now she was. Oh, Lord, yes —
now she was !

At seven o'clock of a Sunday
evening, two weeks after the story's
appearance, she sat in the living
room re-reading it. Anti lay curled

25

26 / Pulp Magazine

up beside her on the sofa, at quick
glance looking like a blob of black
ink shaken from an outsize fountain
pen. (Leora still used fountain
pens. Ball-points made everyone's
handwriting look so lacking in char -
acter . )

The telephone began ringing.

Anti — she named him that because
he so violently disliked certain
things — raised his small head and
looked toward the phone table on
the far side of the room. Tensing
himself to leap from the sofa, he
made a sound that was more a screech
of annoyance than a cat's normal
meow.

"Now, darling, stop that!"

He looked up at her with what
appeared to be defiance in his
bright orange eyes.

"I said 'No!' You mustn't ,
Anti."

He went limp.

Rising, Leora took up her crutch-
es and haltingly crossed the room
to pick up the ringing phone. It
was not one of the newer types with-
out a base; she had her reasons
for not wanting one of those. This
was a good, solid instrument that
rested respectably on a stand when
not in use.

"Hello," she said, and waited.

For nine days now — ten, counting
today — it had been happening at
least twice a day, sometimes more
often. The phone would ring. She
would struggle on her crutches to
answer whichever of the three in
the house she happened to be closest
to. Then, nothing.

Not even a sound of heavy breath-
ing, as the police had told her
to listen for.

"Some of these people don't say
anything," she'd been told by a
young Patrolman DiCorsi who came
in answer to her complaint. "They
just try to frighten you with heavy
breathing. You're supposed to think
you're about to be raped, ma'am."

"Me? Raped?"

"Ma'am, with some of them a wo-
man's age makes no difference."

But this person who called her
two or three times a day didn't
go in for heavy breathing. He,
if it was a he, made no sound at
all. She would pick up the phone
and say "Hello," and getting no
answer might say "Hello" a second
time and then, "Who is this?" And
if she lost control of herself,
as she seemed to be doing more and
more frequently now, she would
scream into the phone, "What do
you want of me? Why do you keep
calling like this?"

Once, just once, she thought
she heard a laugh. Not from the
person on the phone. From someone
else in the background.

"Hello," she said again now,
after having stood there more than
a minute, leaning on her left crutch
and holding the phone to her right
ear .

No answer. No anything.

"I've called the police about
this, you know," she said. "If
you don't stop it, they'll find
out sooner or later who you are,
and you'll be in big trouble."

Silence .

"Do you hear me? You'll be in
big trouble!"

And she heard the laugh again.
Again not from the one making the
call but from someone else, farther
away. From a woman? She couldn't
be sure, but thought so. A young
woman. Being a teacher in a junior
college, she knew what the laughter
of young women sounded like.

The instrument clicked. She put
her own phone back on its base and
slowly returned to the sofa where
Anti sat like a small black statue
gazing not at her but at the phone.

An hour later Tom Darcy came,
and she told him.

"It's that story in the paper,
Leora," he said, shaking his head
in condemnation as he began to un-
pack the bag of groceries he had
brought. Then with the items lined
up on the kitchen counter — he would
put them on the shelves for her
later — he turned and placed his

Anti / 27

hands on her shoulders. "That damn-
ed story," he repeated. "It was
such a mistake, my dear."

She stood there looking at his
face. At the lines of anxiety in
it. "No, Tom."

"Yes, it was. Someone who read
about this house and all the trea-
sures in it — some professional burg-
lar, most likely — keeps calling
now to find out if you're still
confined to the house. Don’t you
see ?"

"And?"

"The first time you don’t an-
swer, he'll think you're out and
be here with bells on. No, not
bells. Gloves, most likely, and
a gun in his pocket. You should
have a gun, Leora."

She wagged her head. "I wouldn't
know what to do with one. And you're

wrong about

the

reason for

the

calls.

Tom.

It

would be more

sensible

for

him

just to keep

an

eye on

the

house

and wait for

me

to go out. Then there wouldn't be
the danger of having his calls
traced . "

" Have you been out?"

"A few times, to walk about the
grounds." Leaning against him,
because it was more comfortable
to do that than to continue swaying
on her crutches, she breathed a
little sigh when he put a supportive
arm around her. Then she said,
"I told him today that I've called
the police. He must know I've call-
ed the phone company too."

"Which might work if he uses
the same phone all the time. But
what if he's smart enough not to?"

"Tom," she breathed, "I don't
know." It was all becoming too
much for her. "I only know I'm
scared half out of my wits."

"So sit yourself down, please."
He pointed to a chair at the kit-
chen table. "And talk to me about
it while I fix us some supper."

"Aren't you supposed to attend
a meeting at the college this eve-
ning?"

"I've suddenly developed a head-
ache. Or no — my arthritis has just

kicked up."

He stayed until nearly midnight,
but the telephone did not ring again
until the next morning while she
was standing at the kitchen sink
doing her breakfast dishes. Anti
always sat on the counter and watch-
ed when she did dishes. It was
wrong of her t to allow it, she knew
that, but her every effort to put
a stop to it had run up against
a blank wall. Anti had a mind of

his own about so many things.

And, of course, when the phone
rang in the living room, he at once
emitted his hissing scream of dis-
approval and shot off the counter
like a rocket.

"No!" Leora shouted. "No, dar-
ling! Don't you dare!"

On his rush to the living room
the cat looked back over a shoulder
to determine if, maybe, just this
once, his mistress might safely
be disobeyed. The phone was still
clamoring. Leora struggled to get
herself in motion on her crutches.

"Anti, I said you mustn't!"

With an almost audible sigh her
furry black companion slowed his
pace to a walk and then sat down
to watch her.

Leora lifted the phone from its
cradle. "Yes?"

Silence .

"You're not really frightening
me, you know," she said defiantly.
And remembering what Tom Darcy had
suggested: "I think you ought to

know, too, that I have a gun."

There was no response. She put
the phone down and looked at the
seated cat.

"Do you know something, Anti?
I'm getting a little fed up with
this."

Anti moved his mouth in a faint
meow.

"Meaning you are, too?"

Again a whispery response. Ac-
tually, about the only time Anti's
meows were other than faint was
when the ringing of the telephone
evoked his shrieks of annoyance.

That evening Tom Darcy brought
a gun and insisted she keep it.

28 / Pulp Magazine

When she protested, saying she
didn't know the first thing about
guns and at sixty-two years of age
she was not about to learn, he pa-
tiently insisted she at least master
the basics. It was a double-barrel
twelve-gauge shotgun with two trig-
gers. "And if you do have to use
it," Tom said, "all you need do
is point it in the general direction
of whatever 's coming at you and
pull both triggers. This isn't
a rifle or a handgun that shoots
a single bullet and requires accu-
rate aiming. It fires a pattern
of pellets, and some are bound to
find the mark."

To please him she carried the
gun into her bedroom and left it
leaning against the wall beside
her bed. But after he departed —
again at a late hour — she put it
away in a corner of the bedroom
closet, knowing she would never
use it no matter what happened.

Half an hour later the phone
rang.

She shared her big double bed
with Anti, who slept outside the
covers at her feet. There was a
telephone on the bedside table,
which had come from India and was
crafted of teak with a copper inlay
of the Taj Mahal. When the phone
rang. Anti let out his usual scream
and would surely have leaped onto
the table had she not stopped him
by throwing out an arm.

He sank back with a growl of
frustration, and she picked up the
instrument. After all, Tom Darcy
might be right, and if she did not
answer, the person calling would
think she was not at home guarding
such treasures as the Taj Mahal
table.

"Hello." But even if Tom were
right, it seemed silly of them to
call at this hour. If she had been
home for every call until now, why
in the world would she be out to-
night after midnight? No, no, Tom.
These calls are being made for some
other reason.

She heard someone cough. A man?
A woman? She could not be sure.

Then another sound, that could have
been a clink of glass on glass,
followed by the unmistakable sound
of liquid being poured.

I'm dealing with more than one
person here, she thought. The one
calling me just coughed. Then some-
one came and poured him — her? — a
drink of something.

"All right," she said, trying
to keep her voice calm. "As I told
you before, I have a gun. And if
you think I'm alone here, you're
mistaken about that, too. I am
not."

Silence. So after waiting an-
other minute and hearing nothing,
she returned the phone to its
cradle.

There were two more calls the
following day, one at 8:15 in the
morning, another at 4:30 in the
afternoon. Not sure it was wise

of her to make remarks to the per-
son calling, she kept quiet on both
occasions. After the second call,
though, she felt an acute need to
get out of the house for a while,
if only for a brief stroll about
the grounds.

"You want to come with me, Anti?"
The little black cat was curled
in a motionless question mark on
a chair in the living room.

He opened one orange eye, gazed
at her in silence for a few seconds,
then closed it.

"Very well. I'll go alone."

She went out through the kitchen,
which had a side door leading to
an herb garden that was her pride
and joy. Doing better with her
crutches now, she spent nearly half
an hour among the beds and was still
nibbling a leaf of sweet basil when
she returned to the house.

But when she would have opened
the door to the kitchen, she found
it locked. Stupidly she had ne-
glected to press the button that
would prevent it from locking it-
self .

For a moment she panicked, drop-
ping one of her crutches and nearly
falling. Retrieving the crutch

demanded all the self-control she

could muster, and exhausted her.
With her eyes closed and her whole
slight body trembling, she leaned

against the house and asked herself
what she should do.

There was no other door she could
use. After the first few phone

calls she had made very sure all
of them were kept locked. The win-
dows, too. She couldn’t climb in

a window anyway, even if one were
open.

What, then?

Tom had told her he would be
late today. There was a faculty
meeting he had to go to, and it
might be seven or eight o'clock

before he arrived. She couldn't
just wait here in the garden until
then. Could she go to the Ander-
sons', her nearest neighbors, and
phone the police? Could she walk

that far?

She had to.

The home of Wilbur and Mildred
Anderson was at least a quarter

mile distant, by way of the narrow
blacktop road that circled the lake.
Four times she had to stop and rest
when she feared another heart at-

tack. Long before she reached her
destination she was drenched with
sweat and reeling from fatigue.

What — dear God — if there was
no one home?

There almost wasn't. Wilbur

and Mildred were out. But their
maid opened the door and helped
Leora to a sofa in the living room
where she was able to lie down until
her heart stopped thudding and her

strength returned. Then she phoned
the police, telling them who and
where she was and what she had done.

In ten minutes a car with Patrol-
man DiCorsi in it was at the Ander-
sons' door.

DiCorsi drove her home. When
none of the many keys he had brought
with him would open a door, he asked
if he might break a window.

"If you must. But be careful
of my cat. He doesn't take to
strangers . "

Using the butt of a gun, DiCorsi
broke a bedroom window at the back

of the house and, yes, Leora had
been right in warning him about
Anti. The cat must have come run-
ning when he heard the glass break,
for when DiCorsi climbed inside

he was greeted with the kind of
screech Anti always voiced when
the phone rang.

Leora called out loudly, "It's
all right. Anti! He's a friend!"

The screeching stopped.

The policeman went through the
house to the front door and opened
it from the inside. He then helped
Leora up the veranda steps and into
the house, where she thanked him
for his kindness, and he asked

if there was anything more he could
do for her.

"No," she said. "I’ll be all
right now. A friend is coming over
later."

DiCorsi departed, and she went

on into the living room where she
found the phone and its cradle on
the floor. Beside them sat Anti,

balefully glaring at her.

Halting, she leaned on her crut-
ches and glared back eit him. "So
you finally did it again," she said
accusingly. "I wasn't here to stop
you, and when it rang you attacked
it. I knew you weren't cured."

Nor would he ever be, she told
herself. From the time he'd been
just a tiny ball of black fluff
he had hated the sound of a ringing
telephone. She had lost count of
the times he had hurled himself
at an offending phone and sent it
flying.

"You're a very naughty cat,"
she told him now as she struggled
to gather up phone and cradle from
the carpet and return them to the
table .

Then she thought of something
and suddenly felt weak.

Who could have called her except
the people who had been doing so
all along? Of course, Tom Darcy
might have called, but why should
he when he had already told her
he would be late this evening? And
of course some other friend ...
but the flow of calls from casual

30 / Pulp Magazine

friends following her heart attack
had dwindled to a trickle now.

They must have phoned. And they
must have heard the phone thud on
the floor when Anti knocked it off
the table. They must have thought
she dropped it.

They * 11 think 1 've had another
heart attack. And they * 1 1 be coming
here to rob me , just as Tom said
they would !

Terrified, she called the police
for the second time that day. She
told them what had happened and
what she feared might happen next.
Could they send someone to stay
with her until Tom Darcy arrived?

They said they could, but were
short-handed at the moment and it
would take a little while. "We'll
have a man there just as quick as
we can, lady," the voice said.
"Meantime, be sure your doors are
locked . "

"But there's a broken bedroom
window! Mr. DiCorsi had to break
it to get me in!"

"Lady, we’ll do our very best,
believe me. You won't be alone
long."

That window. DiCorsi had climbed
in without any difficulty, and the
people who ' d been phoning her could
do the same. Trembling with fear
now — actually shaking all over — she
went into her bedroom for the shot-
gun Tom had left with her.

Would she remember how to use
it if she had to? Yes, she would;
she was sure of it. Anyway, hadn't
Tom said all she had to do was point
it in the direction of whatever
was coming at her and pull the trig-
gers? She could do that.

It was dark outside now, she
noticed as she walked down the hall
to the back bedroom. With the win-
dow out, the bedroom might be chilly
for her. Perhaps she ought to sta-
tion herself in the hall. With
the door open she could still watch
the window.

Resting the gun against the wall
there, she went on into the bedroom
for a chair to sit on. The room

was chilly. A lively breeze came
in through the shattered window,
carrying flower scents from her
beloved gardens and sounds of leaves
rustling on the trees out there.

There was nothing wrong with
her hearing, thank heaven, even
if she was sixty-two years old and
crippled .

Dragging the chair into the hall
was no simple task when using crut-
ches. She positioned it just out-
side the open door and at last,
exhausted, sat down.

With, of course, the shotgun.

And waited.

Who would come first, the people
whose phone call Anti had inter-
rupted, or the police?

Ten minutes passed. It seemed
an hour. Sensing a movement in
the darkness of the hall behind
her, she took in a sharp, quick
breath and turned her head. But
it was only Anti, coming to share
the vigil with her. After rubbing
himself against her left ankle,
he simply sat down and stared into
the bedroom, as though able to read
her mind.

More than once she had convinced
herself that Anti could do that.

"If anyone comes, you mustn't
make a noise," she said. "They
won't see us here in the dark, and
I don't want them to know I'm sit-
ting here."

Anti looked up at her, then star-
ed at the window again.

The waiting continued.

She must have been there twenty
minutes or more when she at last
heard a car stop somewhere close
by — in the road, perhaps, or even
in her own driveway.

Was it the police?

It was not a police car — and
had Leora Truesdale been able to
see it from her sentry post she
would have been even more terrified
than she was.

The machine was a souped-up jal-
opy in psychedelic waves of color
and driven by a barefoot young man

Anti / 31

with a leer on his lips, a glint
of evil in his eyes, and shoulder-
length hair that almost hid the
buttons of colored glass in his

earlobes. His attire consisted
of ragged blue jeans, and a black
sweatshirt with a white death's-head
painted on it.

On the jalopy's front seat with
this youth were two more of his
kind: an equally bizarre young man
a year or so younger, and a young
woman who could have been reasonably
pretty had there been even a touch
of color to relieve the fishbelly
white of her face.

The car stopped in Leora ' s drive-
way and the three got out. The
older young man grunted, "Wait,"
and climbed the veranda steps.

He tried the door and found it
locked. He returned to the car.
"Maybe she left a window open,"
he said. "If she din't, we'll hafta
break one."

The girl with the fishbelly face
whined, "Jeez, Slick, you sure about
this? The heart failure?"

"Course we're sure!" said the
second youth. "You heard her drop
the phone, didn'ya?"

"But—"

"And didn' Slick say it'd happen
that way? Like if we kep' callin'
her and never said nothin', we'd
scare her into havin' another heart
attack? Huh? Didn' he say so?"

"Yeah, jeez, Danny. But—"

"Shut up, then, willya?"

"But how do we know she had a
heart attack?" the girl wailed.

"Because she dropped the phone,
for Crissake ! J Don ' be so dumb!"

"An' because the house is dark,"
said the one named Slick, their
leader. "If she was okay she'd
have lights on, stupid. You think
she'd be goin' 'round on crutches
in the dark ?" He glared at the
others in disgust. "Are you cornin'
or not? I tole ya we hafta find
a window."

They followed him through the
darkness alongside the house. Step
by slow step, with Danny behind

him, the girl last. Reaching out,
the girl touched Danny's arm.

"Danny—" A whisper. "Do you
and Slick have to put it to her,
like Slick said?"

"If she's still alive," he snarl-
ed over a shoulder. "Why shouldn*
we?"

"She's old . The paper said she's
sixty-two . "

"She's built the same as you
are, kid."

"Danny, all we need is to steal
some stuff to buy supplies with.
There's no need for you and Slick
to--"

"Will you two shut up, for Cris-
sakes?" their leader hissed. Then
suddenly, "Hey, look! A busted
window! We won't have to smash
one . "

"Why would she have a broken
window?" the girl said.

"Who gives a damn why, for Cris-
sakes? Go on back to the front

door, both o' ya. I'll climb in
here and open it for ya from in-
side."

The other two departed. Slick
watched them go. Then he approached
the window, jumped up, and grabbed
the ledge, voicing a grunt of exer-
tion as he hauled his muscular body
up onto it.

On her chair in the hall, with
Anti at her feet and the shotgun
leaning within reach against the
wall, Leora Truesdale heard the
sounds of intrusion at the broken
window. Before that she had heard
voices outside in the dark, but
had not been able to make out what
they were saying.

Now she watched a dark human
shape haul Itself over the window
ledge and drop on all fours to the
floor inside. Saw it scramble from
hands and knees to its feet and
turn toward her. All she could
see of it, really, was the white
death's-head painted on its chest.

Telling herself she had to, Leora
reached for the gun, but knew she
would never pull the triggers. Let

32 / Pulp Magazine

them rob her if they wanted to.
Looking down at Anti, she voiced
a moan of helplessness.

At that moment the .phone rang.

The small black cat, perhaps
associating the phone's ringing
with the disturbance at the window,
did a predictable thing. Voicing
his usual ear-splitting screech,
he launched himself like a taloned
rocket at the intruder.

Leora, at the same time, reached
out to a lightswitch on the wall
beside her, and the hall light went
on .

But, unfortunately for Anti,
the youth was armed.

Lashing out with one hand, he
met the cat's charge with a long,
gleaming blade that entered Anti's
throat and came out his back. Le-
ora's beloved pet uttered one last
scream, this time of agony, while
feebly clawing at its destroyer's
knife hand.

Then the intruder disdainfully
flicked the dying body to the floor
and kicked it half way across the
room before turning to advance on
Leora again.

And with the hall light on, he
saw her face.

What he saw was not the expres-
sion of terror he expected — not
the one which, in fact, had been
on her face before he killed her
adored pet. He saw instead a fury
that wholly convulsed her normally
placid features. A fury that made

him falter in his stride and drop
the knife from limp fingers and
blurt out in a blubbering voice,
"No, lady! Oh, good Christ, no!
Don't! "

But he was wasting his breath.
Leora had lifted the double-barrel
shotgun in both hands and taken
careful aim. Now she squeezed both
triggers, filling the bedroom and
hall with twin blasts of thunder.

Dropping the weapon to the floor,
she stood up then without her crut-
ches and watched the intruder die.
With half his head blown off, he
did that very quickly.

Still without her crutches, Leora
walked over to her adored cat and
gathered him into her arms. Return-
ing to her chair, she sat again.
She was still sitting there with
Anti on her lap, totally indifferent
to the larger dead body in its pool
of blood on the bedroom floor, when
Patrolman DiCorsi arrived. And

she was telling DiCorsi what had
happened when Tom Darcy turned

up, in caring panic because she
had failed to answer his phone call.

The dead youth's companions had
fled wildly on foot at the sound
of the shotgun blasts, but were
picked up the following morning
. . . just about the time Leora
Truesdale finished burying, in the

prettiest part of her garden, the

little black cat who hated the sound
of telephones.

Continued from p. 41 :

on, and I think you will, perhaps
we can forget this bad beginning
and start afresh. Come, Lieutenant,
let us have a smoke on it and forget
that which is well forgotten. May
I have a cigarette?"

But Hasselt, left arm hanging

stiffly before him in a sling, only
smiled. He slid his good hand in
his pocket, drew out a small object.

"Sorry, Mynheer Kapitan ," he
replied. "I have no cigarettes
. . . I'm smoking a pipe now."

HELIOGRAPH

by Carl Jacobi

When the July quarterly supply
transport reached Long Nawang after
two grueling months up the Kayan
River from Bulungan on the east
coast, it brought Captain Van Rudin,
the outpost* s officer-in-charge,
three things. It brought five tins
of Sumatra tobacco, for which he
had been in want no less than a
week. It brought Lieutenant William
Hasselt, and an official despatch
from Samarinda headquarters. And
in the eyes of Van Rudin both of
the last two items were potential
sources of trouble.

The despatch read:

H. Van Rudin, Captain Commanding
Long Nawang garrison — Apo Kayan
For your information:

You are hereby advised that a
Chinese trader, one Liang Foy, who
has been contracting Punan and Ken-
yah tribes near Long Iram, has pene-
trated into the interior by way
of the Mahakam, and is now reported
to be near the mouth of the Boh
tributary.

Although this office has no def-
inite information, it is suspected
Liang Foy has contrived to bring
a shipment of Russian rifles for
sale to upriver tribes. This is
a serious matter. You will inves-
tigate and report by return trans-
port .

Major David de Cleyn

Van Rudin frowned as he finished
reading. He scrawled a large

"NOTED" across the paper in blue
pencil and spiked it on the desk
spindle. Then he leaned back, slowly
relit his pipe and studied the man
who stood waiting at attention
before him.

Hasselt was a tall man with a
thin, incisive face marked by a
narrow mustache. His eyes were
dark and clear. Though he wore
river-travel shorts with shirt open
at the throat, his entire bearing
was one of immaculate efficiency.

"Major de Cleyn sent me here
at my own request, sir," he began.
"If you will allow me. I’ll ex-
plain."

Van Rudin dismissed military
formality by waving the newcomer
to a chair. "Talk up, Mynheer Lieu-
tenant," he replied somewhat stiff-
ly. "We've a full house here with
no one due to leave until after

the monsoon. I'm damned if I can
figure what this means."

Hasselt talked. He crossed his
legs, hung his solar topi on one
knee and began a rapid soliloquy
in a low, well-modulated voice.

For a quarter of an hour he spoke
in precise, terse sentences. And

at the end of that quarter hour.

Van Rudin sat motionless, control-
ling his emotions with difficulty.
A good part of what he had heard
was vague to him. But he gathered
this much:

That Lieutenant Hasselt was a
graduate of the military college
at Batavia. That previously the
farthest he had been into the inter-
ior was Long Iram. And that the
bug in his cranium had to do with
heliograph. Heliograph!

Hasselt had brought with him
in one of the transport prahus a
large wooden box. In that box were
four instruments, each comprised
of a circular mirror, a shutter
with a lever, and a telescopic rod.
The Lieutenant had been authorized
to establish a system of sun-signal-

33

34 / Pulp Magazine

ling at the Dutch Borneo outpost.
Long Nawang.

It was a fact, wasn’t it, that
within a radius of twenty miles
from the post there were no less
than three large kampongs ? And
these native villages at irregular
intervals broke into sudden rebel-
lion, requiring an armed force to
be in their vicinity at all times.

Very well. At each kampong a
heliograph set would be located.
The apparatus would be placed in
the highest nearby tree. A Dyak
soldier, who of course must learn
the code, would be stationed at
each set. Hasselt himself would
operate the central set at Long
Nawang. He would thus be in reg-
ular communication with the three
villages, would be advised of all
developments in them, while the
total outlying force would be but
three men.

"Of course," Hasselt went on
quickly, "there is one disadvantage.
Obviously when the sun is clouded
the system cannot be used. But
I think you'll agree that even dur-
ing the rainy season, that is a
minor angle. There is always some
sunlight for an interval every day."

Van Rudin carefully knocked the
ashes from his pipe, polished it
on his uniform coat and stored it
on a rack of some fourteen other
briars on the bamboo wall at his
side .

"The whole thing depends, I sup-
pose," he said quietly, "on whether
or not I decide to let you have
a go at it."

Hasselt' s face clouded for only
an instant. Then, unmindful of
the Captain's icy stare, he smiled
and shook his head.

"Not exactly, sir. I have orders
from Major de Cleyn to proceed ac-
cording to my own judgment. But
of course everything I do will be
subject to your approval."

After that the Lieutenant of-
fered news and gossip from Samarinda
and Pontianak. When he found these
were politely but coldly received
by Van rudin, he saluted, picked

up his luggage and began to follow
a Dyak orderly to his assigned room
in the near of the officers' bun-
galow. But before he left he took
a cigarette from his pocket and
lit it. It was a four-inch Russian
cigarette, and it was perfumed.

For two years Van Rudin had been
stationed at Long Nawang, surrounded
by heat, treacherous Dyaks and par-
tially explored jungle. During
that time, overlord of a vast onder -
af deeling (district) with only the
flag of the queen to restrict him,
he had come to resent all disrup-
tions of his routine. He hated
criticisms, suggestions as to the
manner in which he governed the
post. And he found almost his sole
enjoyment in his pipes.

Tobacco with Van rudin was a
matter of principle. He had once
said that he could place a man in-
stantly by the form of nicotine
he used. Cigars and cheroots were
for hairbrained swivel-chair sitters
like de Cleyn. Chewing was intol-
erable and akin to the betel nut
of the Dyaks. A cigareet was an
object of suspicion. But a perfumed
cigarette! Van Rudin choked as
he thought of it and strode out
into the compiund to begin the day's
inspection.

Inspection over, he drew Lieu-
tenant Bakster, second in command,
onto the bungalow veranda and took
up immediately the Liang Foy matter.

"We'll leave at dawn tomorrow,"
Van Rudin said, after showing Bak-
ster the despatch from the C.O.
"Just the two of us and four Dyak
troopers to carry. It's a one-man
job, but I need a change, and so
do you. The villagers are quiet,
and Vorst can take over while we're
gone . "

Bakster nodded. He was a short,
heavy man who ahd served in two
Atchinese campaigns in Sumatra.
Like Van Rudin, he smoked a pipe.

"We should make it in eight
days," he commented. "But how about
Hasselt?"

Van Rudin grimaced and stroked

Heliograph / 35

his jaw. "Hasselt is here in an
engineering capacity only," he re-
plied. "If I have anything to say
about it, he'll go back with the
transport . "

There were a number of things
to be done before Van Rudin felt

he could leave the post. He ques-
tioned the medical officer, found

that the three cases of fever were
well under control and there was

no danger of an epidemic. He care-
fully advised Lieutenant Vorst what
to do in case of the slightest emer-
gency. And he made a personal visit
to the three kampongs . Eight days
was a short time, but Van Rudin

knew his responsibility.

It was night when he returned
from the village-inspection trip.
The Dyak boatmen pushed his dugout
to the post jetty, slipped the pain-
ter around the bollards. Van Rudin
climbed out, motioned them to the
barracks. Then he moved slowly
to the wharf end and leaned against
one of the upright piles.

For half an hour he stood there
alone. Under a mottled sky the
black river drifted by him. He
lit his pipe, watched the smoke
coil upward from the square bowl.

"Heliograph," he muttered to
himself. "What infernal nonsense."

And then abruptly he stiffened.
Right hand dropping downward to
his holstered army pistol, he stared
ahead into the gloom. From some-
where on the dark water a sound
had drifted to his ears. Low and
muffled, Van Rudin recognized it
as paddles near the farther shore.

Starlight came through an open
patch of sky, and for a fleeting
instant he saw. It was a large
prahu , manned by ten or more Dyaks,
and it was low in the water as if
heavily laden. Moving sluggishly,
it disappeared downriver.

Ten minutes snailed by. A second
smaller prahu came into view. Like
an elongated ghost it followed its
predecessor .

Van Rudin stuck his pipe into
his mouth and scowled. What were

native boats doing on the river
at night, coming from the south?
A returning hunting party? But
no. In such a case there would
be yelling and singing, torches
to announce their arrival.

Abruptly through the still air
a new sound came to his ears. Faint,
metallic, it was the distant ringing
of a Dyak gong, one of those huge
discs that hung before the longhouse
of every kampong and were struck
to ward off evil spirits.

The officer shrugged. Turning,
he made his way past the sentry
into the stockade and across to
the bungalow. In his room he un-
dressed slowly, lay down under the
mosquito cloth. But he could not
sleep. His brain was troubled.
More than that, smoke was drifting
into his room from Hasselt' s quar-
ters farther down the corridor . . .
sweet smoke . . . from a perfumed

cigarette .

At dawn the party got their
equipment ready. Van Rudin' s plans
were simple. They would follow
the Kayan to the narrows, head a-
cross country to the Boh, where
a dugout was kept concealed for
just such an occasion, then continue
to the mouth and the Mahakam. Lo-
cating Liang Foy, if he were in
the district, should be easy.

Yet an inner voice warned the
Captain not to leave. He had an
unpleasant premonition that trouble
was stalking the post, that it would
strike the moment he was beyond
call .

Only the fact that the transport
left in two weeks and his personal
report must accompany it to the
coast led him to act.

Four days later they came upon
Liang Foy.

The slant-eyed Cantonese was
seated in the stern of a weather-
racked gasoline launch, and he prov-
ed disappointing. He knew nothing
of rifles, Russian or otherwise.
By the sacred ashes of his ancestors
he would not think of selling them

36 / Pulp Magazine

to the Dyaks if he had them. He
was just a poor trader who had come
farther inland because the Mahakam
was more navigable this year and
business near the coast was bad.

Scowling, Van Rudin studied the
yellow man, then rummaged through
the launch and found nothing. With
a sigh he gave the order to return.

And on the sixth day, forty-eight
hours from the post, the drums be-
gan! A pulsing, rhythmic murmur
at first, coming from the northeast,
they grew louder, more distinct
with each mile backtrail. Van Rudin
cursed, urged the Dyaks to greater
speed .

"Too late," Bakster panted as
he worked at his own blade. "That
dirty chink already sold his ri-
fles. He must have gone up the
Boh and met the natives at the head-
waters. The Dyaks took the same
trail we did, but they went at
night. We're in for it."

Van Rudin nodded, thinking of
the loaded prahus he had seen on
the river. What a blind fool he
had been.

But the trouble went deeper than
that. Rifles the Dyaks might have,
yet it was against their nature
to put them to use at once without
a reason. Hate for the garrison,
strong as it was, was not sufficient
motive. It required the frenzy
of a rice feast, a significant omen,
an infringement of a tabu law.

On and on the drums thundered.
By the time the party had crossed
the intervening jungle to the Kayan,
the pounding vibration seemed to
come from all sides. Paddling fur-
iously, they reached the final bend
in the river separating them from
Long Nawang. They slowed, advanced
with caution.

Ahead machine-gun fire rattled
abruptly. Scattered rifle shots
answered .

Lips tight. Van Rudin directed
the boatmen to pull for shore. At
the left bank they plunged into
the bush. Single file they ran,
weaving through the rank under-
growth .

For ten minutes they fought their
way forward. The shots were nearer
now, and between staccato bursts
from the post's machine guns came
short intermittent yells.

Van Rudin slid to a halt, turned,
revolver in hand .

"They're attacking from the river
bank," he said quietly. "We'll
enter through the rear gate. As
soon as we strike the clearing,
Lieutenant, fire the signal to let
Vorst know."

They penetrated the last fringe
of growth, reached the edge of the
glade. Thirty yards beyond reared
the high wooden walls of the stock-
ade. Puffs of smoke were billowing
from the blockhouse.

Bakster jerked his revolver up-
ward, fired three shots in quick
succession, then followed Van Rudin
across the open space at a racing
gallop. The four Dyak troopers
were already running for safety.
Halfway they heard a bugle ring
out, saw the stockade rear gate
swing inward .

But before they reached it, five
Kenyah warriors, grotesque in war-
paint and feathered head-dresses,
leaped from a clump of lalang grass,

jerked
fired .

rifles

to shoulders

and

The

Dyak

private nearest

Van

Rudin stiffened and fell. Bakster
clutched at his arm. A minute later
the two white men and three natives
were in the compound and the gate
swung shut.

"Cease firing."

Van Rudin issued the order as
he advanced to the side of Lieuten-
ant Vorst, who stood by the bungalow
steps, a worried look on his face.

"I'll take over," the Captain
said. "Accompany Bakster to his
quarters and see that his arm gets
medical attention. How many men
up there?" His hand pointed to
the blockhouse.

"Seven, sir," Vorst answered,
saluting jerkily.

The dry detonations of the rifles
in the reeds were still sounding.
Even as Van Rudin stood there in

Heliograph / 37

a moment's indecision a burning
spear lifted over the. walls, sang
through the air and dropped beside
him. His nailed boots trampled
on the flaming grass point, kicked
the shaft aside.

He mounted the bamboo ladder
to the blockhouse. Seven brown
faces turned to meet him, grinning.
Good men here. Vorst had picked
the best. Three Long-Glats, three
Bukats, who a scant year before
had been hunting heads in the Kapuas
district, and a tattooed Coast Dyak.
The Long-Glats fondled the Hotchkiss
guns lovingly, waiting for orders
to resume firing.

Van Rudin peered out through
one of the wall ports. Ahead and
below him the silt-heavy river was
a band of copper in the sun. Be-
tween it and the stockade lay a
space of seventy-five yards, open
and for the most part offering no
protection. At the extreme right
and left, however, where the clear-
ing merged into the jungle, lalang
grass and reeds grew man-high and
unmolested. It was from these two
sectors that the attacking shots
came .

Bullets thudded into the block-
house walls spasmodically. Sumpit
blow-pipe darts whipped over the
stockade to land quivering in the
hard earth of the compound. But
save for an uplifted arm, a gleaming
rifle, the Kenyahs remained hidden.

Van Rudin packed his pipe
thoughtfully, lit it and considered.

"Fire carefully when you see
something to fire at," he said in
Malay at length. "Rifles, unless
they attempt to scale the walls."

The Kenyahs made one more con-
certed rush. Emerging from the
lalang grass, a double line of them
ran forward to the stockade. Their
intent was obvious. The Hotchkiss
guns took up their death chatter
once again.

Five minutes later the clearing
was swept clean. Silence closed
in on the post.

That night after mess Van Rudin
sat on the veranda and held court.

Vorst, nervous and ill-at-ease,
supplied the details.

"I'm not entirely to blame. Myn -
heer Kapitan ," he began slowly.
"The rifles started it. The Kenyahs
must have smuggled them downriver
more than a week ago. Two of the
three kampongs are armed to the
teeth.

"The day you left Hasselt got
his heliograph sets in order. I
warned him to wait until you re-
turned, but he insisted he was oper-
ating under direct orders from Major
de Cleyn. He placed a sun-signal-
ling set at each village and one
here in that tree in the center
of the compound."

Vorst paused, studied his super-
ior officer intently.

"Everything would have gone all
right," he continued, "but the Ken-
yahs objected to those instruments.
They refused to touch them, but
they regarded them as some form
of Dutch magic. Yesterday the trou-
ble started. The patrol forces
stationed at each kampong were or-
dered to leave on the threat of
losing their heads, and the attack
began this morning."

Van Rudin 's face was granite.
He looked out through the veranda
screening at the single tree in
the compound. High up in the top
branches could be seen the shadowy
outlines of the recently constructed
platform which held the post's hel-
iograph set. In his chair by the
veranda railing Hasselt sat in
strained silence.

And Van Rudin was thinking.
Thinking what would happen if the
three kampongs saw fit to unite
and attack the post en masse. It
would mean annihilation probably.
Even machine guns and wooden walls
couldn't hold them out forever.
The whole affair went back to de
Cleyn. Maybe now he would realize
that green officers with brilliant
ideas were all right on the coast
but didn't belong at in-country
outposts where the lives of forty
men rested on shoestring diplomacy.

When Van Rudin finally spoke

38 / Pulp Magazine

it was in a low, firm voice.

"Tomorrow," he said, "two plat-
oons will go downriver and bring
back those heliograph sets. They're
the immediate cause of the trouble,
and taking them away may stop the
rebellion. Meanwhile, Lieutenant
Hasselt, I will appreciate it if
you will remain in your quarters.
What you did may not have consti-
tuted actual insubordination, but
it is inconceivable that you should
have acted without my consent. You
will go back to Samarinda with the
transport . "

The words reached their mark.
Hasselt pushed to his feet, swayed
a moment and strode to the door.
At the threshold he turned, fists
clenched.

"By your orders. Mynheer , " he
said shortly. "But as man to man
I think you're a stubborn fool."

The night remained quiet. Above
the blockhouse the Dyak lookout
chanted the Malay equivalent of
"All's well" at intervals. The
drums had ceased hours ago, but
a crimson glow in the sky marked
a fire in the nearest kampong .

Long after Bakster and Vorst
had gone to their rooms, Van Rudin
sat on the veranda, sweating pro-
fusely, chewing the stem of a cold
pipe.

The situation seemed tightly
closed from all angles. He couldn't
take the Dyaks' rifles away from
them now. Even at best that would
be a matter of time and patient
persuasion. And tomorrow when they
went downriver it would be a ques-
tion if any of them returned.

Hasselt was a meedling, insub-
ordinate fool!

Van Rudin placed his pipe in
his pocket and Jerked forward to
the edge of his chair. His brain,
mulling over it all, had come upon
a new thought. Why wait for the
coming day? Slipping out of the
post tonight with but a handful
of men he might enter the three
villages and return with the trou-
blemaking heliograph sets before

the natives realized what had hap-
pened .

Even as his mind decided, another
thought followed. Hasselt had got
them into this. Inexperienced or
not, he would be the other white
man to go. Van Rudin got up and
strode into the bungalow.

An hour later a small dugout
detached itself from the post jetty,
swung into the current and moved
downstream. Blurred shadows against
the night sky, the five occupants
sat stiff and unmoving, making no
sound .

In the stern, eyes hard. Van
Rudin trained his gaze past the
three Dyak boatmen to the inky jun-
gle shore. Ahead in the bow Hasselt
squatted beside his rifle.

A screeching tree hyrax seemed
to follow them along the left bank.
Off somewhere a leopard snarled.

Van Rudin was still amazed at
the ease with which they had left
the post. Fully expecting to be
ambushed before they reached the
river, the two white men and three
Dyak privates had passed through
the clearing to the jetty without
a shot fired. The Kenyahs were
either leading them on, permitting
them to move toward their own de-
struction, or for some unexplained
reason they had made a temporary
return to their villages.

Sighting a blacker shadow ahead,
Van Rudin recognized the landing-
place of the first kampong . They
slid shoreward. The two white men
made their way up the treacherous
notched log and strode boldly toward
the village.

A dying fire shone fitfully
through the trees. Following the
trail, they emerged into full view
of the long-house. The huge
structure, community house for many
families, seemed deserted at first.
But an instant later a surprised
yell sounded, and the clearing
leaped into a place of running
figures, shouts and confusion.

The two white men advanced to

Heliograph / 39

a huge Palapak tree close to the
farther end of the long-house. Wood-
en pegs had been fastened at three-
foot spaces on either side of the
trunk. Hasselt braced himself and
began to mount upward.

Revolver in hand, Van Rudin
watched the space before him
gradually close in. In two minutes
he was faced by a muttering crowd
of Kenyahs. Tattooed warriors, and
their wives, naked children, the
kapala himself and the witch doctor
all formed a menacing semicircle
before him. Parangs were drawn from
bark loincloths. Rifles gleamed
in the firelight.

And at the sight of those weapons
Van Rudin narrowed his eyes. Not
Russian rifles as he had expected,
as he had been warned. But modern
Lee Enfields, short magazine Mark
VI improved type. Better guns than
the Dutch service had. Liang Foy
had done his job well. He had evid-
ently crossed the border into Sara-
wak or British North and obtained
contraband of British manufacture.

Above Hasselt reached the top
branches of the tree. Came a suc-
cession of sharp blows and rending
of wood. The Lieutenant began to
descend .

On the ground once again with
the heliograph instrument in his
arms Hasselt nodded and led the
way toward the river. They reached
it without intervention. In the
dugout the Dyak boatmen dipped their
baddies, and they moved out into
the river. Not until a bend in
the jungle shore was passed, hiding
them from sight, did Van Rudin re-
alize the strain he had been under.

Forehead wet with sweat, throat
dry, he grimly contemplated the
fact that the ordeal must be endured
twice more before they could hope
for success. He admitted to himself
that Hasselt had acted with nerve
and courage, but any kindly feeling
toward the Lieutenant was swept
away a moment later by the younger
man's action.

Hasselt lit another of his cig-
arettes. The perfumed smoke swirled

over the dugout to enter Van Rudin* s
nostrils in a sickening cloud.

The second kampong lay on the
south side of the river. As they
followed the well-worn trail inland
Van Rudin was oppressed by the si-
lence that greeted them. He finger-
ed his revolver nervously.

Entering the village, they stop-
ped short. By some unknown means

the Kenyahs had been warned of their
approach. Twenty warriors faced

them, spears raised, mutilated faces
filled with hate and distrust.

When it happened Van Rudin was
caught off guard. There was a gut-
tural command. Stealthy steps

sounded behind the two white men.
Before they could turn naked figures
surged upon them from the rear,

and a rattan rope coiled through
the air. A heavy glow from a wooden
club crashed down on Hasselt 's
shoulder as he jerked his revolver
upward .

Bound and helpless, the two white
men were pushed forward to the fire.
A Kenyah warrior spat at them, seiz-
ed their weapons. And then the
village kapala strode forward.

"White men," he said, speaking
in Malay, "you have chosen to come
here after we warned your patrol
to leave. You have placed in our
midst pieces of magic which we do
not understand. Already in answer
to the workings of that magic two
of my wives have been taken sick
and the child of another refuses
to eat. The charm is potent, but
it can be washed out in blood. Mer-
aka, our wise one, has said so.
You must die."

The words were spoken simply
while the surrounding crowd looked
on in silence. Van Rudin made no
reply.

After that the two white men
were led up the ladder to the gal-
lery of the long-house, marched
to the far end and pushed into a
narrow chamber. The nipa- thatch
door banged shut.

Hasselt flung himself down on
the floor and spoke for the first
time .

40 / Pulp Magazine

"Captured like children," he
said bitterly. "Why didn't we put
up a fight? A couple of shots,
and that rabble would be running
ye t . "

Van Rudin shook his head slowly.
Light filtered through the crude
wall from the fire outside to re-
veal his face set in grim lines.

"It wouldn't have been as easy
as that," he answered. "Ten years
ago, yes. But the Kenyahs have
learned to understand firearms and
know their limits. It's not our-
selves that I’m worried about just
now. It's the post."

"The post?"

Van Rudin nodded and squatted
beside the Lieutenant. "Long Nawang
can hold out as long as the villages
attack separately," he said. "But
if they unite I'm afraid it means
slaughter, death to every man sta-
tioned there."

The hours dragged past. Without
food, without water the two impris-
oned men sought to quiet their
nerves with sleep. But insects
came through the walls in hordes,
and the air in the unventilated
room grew stifling. Not until dawn
did Van Rudin move. Then, at a
sudden burst of sounds outside,
he leaped to the door, peered
through a crevice and gave a groan
of despair.

"Warriors and chiefs from the
other two villages," he said short-
ly. "It's what I feared. They'll
have a long palaver, and then the
whole horde of them will head up-
river. The post won't have a
chance . "

Hasselt bit his lip. "Is there
no way out?" he asked. "Can't. ..
can't we do anything?"

"If Vorst and Bakster could be
warned, they could make a counter-
attack, strike before the Kenyahs
had formed. The palaver will take
a full day, and during that time
their weapons are put aside. But
— " and the Captain let his hands
fall to his sides heavily — "they
can't be warned. Even if we got

out of this room we'd never be able
to escape from the village alive."

Hasselt 's gaze followed Van Ru-
din's out the crevice. A sudden
gleam in his eyes, he turned.

"The heliograph tree," he said
excitedly. "If I can get out on
the roof without being seen I can
reach that lower branch and climb
to the top. There's a strong sun,
and I can flash Long Nawang. I
can tell them to come downriver
full strength."

His voice stopped short while
his eyes searched Van Rudin' s an-
xiously. The post commandant shook
his head.

"It wouldn't work. No one at
the post would be expecting a sig-
nal. Even if they were, who is
there to understand your code?"

But Hasselt, face set in deter-
mination, was already removing his
shoes .

"We've got to take the chance,"
he said, standing up. "While you
were gone on the Liang Foy trip
I trained one Dyak private, Saja
Baras, a smattering of the code.
He's slow at it, but if I can es-
tablish contact I might be able
to make him understand. I'm going
to try."

Once more the Lieutenant peered
through the crevice. Then, moving
to the rear of the room, he raised
his arms and grasped the heavy bam-
boo rafter overhead. With a lithe
movement he swung his body upward.
Balancing, he crawled to the roof's
slanting edge. His bent fingers
began to dig at the nipa thatching.

Twice Van Rudin parted his lips
to call the Lieutenant back. Each
time he clicked his teeth together
and said nothing.

The opening in the roof was wide
now, large enough to admit a man's
body. Hasselt called back in a
hoarse whisper:

"Do something to attract them
to the other side of the long-
house . "

Van Rudin nodded, hesitated.
Cupping his hands to his mouth.

Heliograph / 41

he advanced to the door, strained
his throat muscles and gave a long,
piercing cry. It was the cry of
an enraged leopard, practiced in
past years of hunting experience,
and he repeated it twice, ending
in a low, coughing snarl.

The sound had its effect. A
sudden hush fell upon the village.
Then, led by a younger warrior,
there was a concerted rush to the
far side of the kampong . Hasselt
slid out the opening and ran lightly
across the slanting roof.

Unobserved, he reached the tree.
He began to mount upward. Presently
he was out of sight.

The confusion aroused by the
leopard cry passed on. Two Kenyahs
entered the bush to search for the
animal that seemed so near. The
others returned to gather about
the three chiefs.

And Van Rudin sweated in the
half gloom that surrounded him.
Nails biting into palms, he waited.
The watch on his wrist ticked slow-
ly. Minutes snailed into a quarter
of an hour, and still that section
of the tree which quartered his
vision remained devoid of human
life.

Then his muscles jerked taut.
Before him whipcord-clad legs sud-
denly dropped into view. Hasselt
leaped to the long-house roof and,
arms extended to keep his balance,
began to run toward the opening
in the thatch.

Twenty feet he came on. Then
a Kenyah warrior twisted his head
about and uttered a shrill cry of
warning.

"The white tuan escapes. Kill
him. Kill him!" •

In an instant the air was filled
with shouts and imprecations. Has-
selt, head down, ran faster. An
arm was upraised below, and a glint-
ing shaft streaked upward.

The spear caught the Lieutenant
high in the shoulder. He stumbled,
fell. Rolling side over side his
body catapulted into space.

One instant, like a man in a
dream. Van Rudin stood stiff and

unmoving. Then he wheeled, lurched
toward the door of the room. With
a mad oath he flung himself at that
barrier. The door splintered,

crashed open.

He rushed out, ran the length

of the gallery and leaped to the
ground below. Silently he ground

his fist into the first of the na-
tives who rushed forward to stop
him. Ten feet more he fought his
way, arms working like pistons.

Then a solid bastion of brown bodies
closed in on him, and a club rose
and fell.

The weight seemed to descend
upon his skull gradually. Village,
faces swirled backward in a circle
of flaming colored lights. He felt
the ground rise up to meet him.

Yet twice after that he fought

to open his eyes. Each time he
sank backward like a man in an opium
stupor. He heard dimly, as from
far off, confused sounds.

And then a long time later those
sounds changed. There were rifle
shots now and voices in his own
tongue and . . . and the clear,

ringing notes of ... a bugle.

It was the night of the following
day, and they sat on the veranda

of the officers’ bungalow at Long
Nawang. Before them the compound
was a sea of blackness. Van Rudin
pressed a hand gently against his
bandaged head and twisted in his
chair .

"I was wrong, Lieutenant Has-
selt," he said at length. "It will
take time and explanation to the
natives, but heliograph is here
to stay. Vorst tells me we’ve taken
over every last one of the contra-
band rifles. The villages will
be quiet again in a week, and a

full report incriminating Liang
Foy is being sent with the transport
to the coast."

The Captain stopped to cross
his legs slowly. "As for you,"

he continued, "Long Nawang needs
men of your calibre. If you stay

Continued on p . 32

THE CURSE OF THE HOUSE

by Robert Bloch

"Did you ever hear of a haunted
house?"

I nodded slowly.

"Well, this case is different.
I'm not afraid of a haunted house.
My problem is that there's a house
haunting me."

I sat silent for a long moment,
staring at Will Banks blankly. He
in turn regarded me calmly, his
long, thin face impassive, and his
gray eyes shining quite rationally
as they focussed at random on var-
ious objects about my office.

But a slight, almost impercept-
ible twitching of the lips indi-
cated the undoubtedly hyper-neur-
aesthenic tendencies which his calm
exterior hid. Nevertheless, I
mused, the man had courage. Victims
of hallucination and obsession are
usually quite unstrung, and their
schizoid tendencies generally are
uncontrollably manifested. But

Will Banks had guts. This thought
came quickly, then was overmastered
by curiosity regarding his state-
ment: "There's a house haunting

me . "

He had said it so matter-of-
factly, so calmly. Too calmly.
If he had been hysterical about
it, or melodramatic, then it would
indicate that he realized his plight
as a victim of an obsession and
was trying to fight it. But this
acceptance implied implicit faith
in his delusion. A bad sign.

"Perhaps you'd better tell me
the story from the beginning," I
said, a bit nervous myself. "There
is a story, I presume?"

Banks' face, all at once, dis-
played genuine agitation. One hand
rose unconsciously to brush back
his blond, straight hair from the

perspiring forehead. His mouth
twitched more perceptibly.

"There is a story. Doctor," he
said. "It isn't an easy story for
me to tell and it won't be an easy
story for you to — to believe. But
it's true. Good God," he burst
out, "don't you understand? That's
what makes it so awful. It's true."

I adopted a professional suavity
as I ignored his emotion and offered
him a cigarette. He held it in
nervous fingers, without lighting
it. His eyes sought mine implor-
ingly.

"You aren't laughing at me, are
you, Doctor? In your capacity" — (he
could not bring himself to say "psy-
chiatrist") "you must listen to
a lot of things that sound peculiar.
You do, don't you?"

I nodded, offering him a light.
The first puff braced him.

"And Doctor, another thing. You
fellows have some kind of medical
oath, don't you? About violating
confidences, and all that sort of
thing? Because there are certain — "

"Tell your story, Mr. Banks,"
I said briskly. "I promise you
that I'll do what I can to help,
but in order to help you I must
have absolute sincerity from you."

Will Banks spoke.

"I told you that I'm haunted
by a house. Well, that's true,
strange as it may sound. But the
circumstances are stranger still.
To begin with, I'm going to ask
you to believe in witchcraft. Get
that. Doctor? I'm going to ask

you to believe. I'm not arguing
with you to convince you, although
I think that can be done. I'm mere-
ly asking you. That In itself
should convince you of my sincerity

42

The Curse of the House / 43

and my sanity. Unless I miss my
guess, the sure indication of a
psychotic personality is when the
deluded puts up a long, fantastic
argument to convince his hearer.
Am I right?"

I nodded. It was true.

"Well, I’m merely asking you
to believe in witchcraft for the
duration of my tale. Just as I
believed, years ago, when I went
to Edinburgh. I had been a student
of the lost sciences men choose
to call the Black Arts. I was in-
terested in the use ancient sor-
cerers made of mathematical symbols
in their ceremonies — surmising that
perhaps they were unconsciously
employing geometric patterns which
hold keys to the outer cosmos, even
the Fourth Dimension recognized
by modern-day scientists.

"I spent years in the fascinating
pursuit of olden devil-worship,
traveling to Naples, Prague, Buda-
pest, Cologne. I shall not say
what I came to believe, nor shall
I di more than hint at the survival
of demon-worship in the modern
world. Enough that after a time
I established connections with the
vast underground system controlling
hidden cults. I learned codes,
signals, mysteries. I was accepted.
And material for my monograph was
being piled up.

"Then I went to Edinburgh — Edin-
burgh, where once all men believed
in witchcraft. Talk about New Eng-
land witch-baiters! That’s childish
stuff compared to the Scottish town
where not twenty or thirty old hags,
but thirty thousand witches and
sorcerers once lived and lurked.
Think of it; three hundred years
ago there were thirty thousand of
them, meeting in old houses, creep-
ing through underground tunnels
in which lay buried the black sec-
rets of their blood cults. Macbeth
and Tam O'Shanter hint of it, but
vaguely.

"Here in ancient Edinburgh I
hoped to find the final corrobora-
tion for my theories. Here In the

veritable witches* cauldron of wiz-
ardry, I settled and began to Inves-
tigate. My underground connections
served me, and after a time I was
admitted to certain houses. In
them I met people who still live
a secret life of their own under
the very surface of a quiet, modern
Scottish city. Some of those dwell-
ings are many hundreds of years
old — still in use — some In use from
below. No, I won't explain that.

"Then I met Brian Droome. ’Black
Brian* Droome he was called, and
in the coven he had another name.
He was a gigantic man, bearded and
swarthy. When we met I was reminded
of descriptions concerning Gilles
de Rais — reminded in more ways than
one. Indeed, he did have French
blood, though his ancestors had
settled in Edinburgh hundreds of
years ago. They had built Brian's
house, and it was this house that
I particularly wanted to see.

"For Brian Droome 's ancestors
had been sorcerers. I knew that.
In the infamous secret history of
European cults, the clan of Droome
occupied a detestable eminence.
During the great witchcraft craze
of three hundred years ago, when
the king’s soldiers came seeking
the burrows in which the wizards
lay hidden, Droome House was one
of the first to be ransacked.

"For the Droomes presided over
a truly terrible cult, and in their
great cellars fully thirty members
of the family died before the mus-
kets of the outraged militia. And
yet the house itself had survived.
While thousands of ransacked dwell-
ings had burned in those terrible
nights, Droome House had been left
gaunt and deserted, but untouched.
Some of the Droomes escaped.

"Those surviving Droomes re-
turned. The worship went on, but
in secret now; the Droomes were
a devout race, not easily moved
to abandon their religious tenets.
The house stood, and the Faith
stood. Until this day.

"But now only Brian Droome re-

44 / Pulp Magazine

mained, of all the line. He lived
alone in the old house, a reputed
student of sorcery who seldom at-
tended the gatherings out on the
hills where surviving believers
still invoked the Black Father.
My connections secured me an intro-
duction, for I was greatly desirous
of seeing the ancient dwelling and
looking at certain inscriptions
and designs which legend said were
engraved on the stony walls of the
cellars .

"Brian Droome . Swarthy, bearded,
burning-eyed! Unforgettable! His
personality was as compelling as
a serpent's — and as evil. Genera-
tions had moulded him into the epit-
ome of a sorcerer, a wizard, a seek-
er after things forbidden. The
heritage of four hundred years had
made a wizard of Droome.

"In boyhood he read the black
books in his old house; in manhood
he walked the shadows of its halls
in a palpable atmosphere of witch-
ery. And yet, he was not a silent
man, he could talk a blue streak,
and was remarkably well-informed
and well-educated — in a word, cul-
tured. But he was not civilized .
Brian Droome was a pagan, and when
he spoke of his beliefs he had the
trusting manner of a fearless child.

"I met him several times at —
gatherings. Then I requested the
pleasure of visiting him at his
home. I had to wheedle, I admit,
because he was damnably reluctant.
On the excuse of showing him certain
notes of my own, I at last obtained
his gruding consent. Others ex-
pressed genuine amazement when I
told them; it seems that Droome
had never allowed strangers in the
great house, and was alone in the
sense that he entertained no human
company.

"So I called on Brian Droome.
When I went, as I told you, I be-
lieved in witchcraft; believed,
that is, that the art had been prac-
tised and had a scientific basis —
although I did not concede that
its achievements were in any way

connected with the supernatural.

"But when I came in sight of
the House of Droome, I began to
change my mind. I didn't realize
the full extent of the change until
later, but even at the time the
first glimpse of Brian Droome ' s
dwelling filled me — filled me — with
horror 1"

The last words seemed to explode
out of Will Banks. He went on,
more softly than before.

"Now you must mark this. The
house stood on a hillside against
the bleeding sunset sky. It was
a two-story house, with twin gables
on either side of a peaked roof.
The house rose out of the hill,
like a gigantic head emerging from
a grave. The gables were horns
against the heavens. Two jutting
eaves were ears. The door was wide
as a grinning mouth. There was
an upper window on each side of
the door.

"I won't tell you that the win-
dows were like eyes. They were
eyes. Through their narrow slits
they peered at me, watched me ap-
proach. I felt it as I have never
felt anything before — that this
house, this centuried dwelling,
possessed a life of its own; that
it was aware of me, saw me, heard
me coming.

"I walked up the path, nonethe-
less, because I didn't know what
was to come. I walked up and the
mouth opened — I mean, the door open-
ed — and Brian let me in. It^ opened,
I tell you. Brian didn't open it.
That was awful.

"It was just as though I had
walked into a monster's head; a
thinking monster's head. I could
almost feel the brain buzzing about
me, pulsing with thoughts as black
as the shadows in the long, narrow,
throat-like hallway through which
we walked.

"Bear with me while I give a
few details. There was a long hall,
with a stairway at the further end,
branching off into side rooms. The
first side room to the left was

The Curse of the House / 45

the study Brian took me to. How
well I know the geography of that
house! Why shouldn't I know it?
I see it every night in my dreams.

"We talked. Of course it's im-
portant to remember what we talked
about, but I really cannot recall.
Brian, immensely forceful personal-
ity though he was, paled into insig-
nificance beside the weight exerted
by that ghastly house. If Brian
Droome was the product of twelve
generations, then this house was
the twelve generations incarnate.

"It was something that had stood
for three hundred and eighty years,
filled with life all that time.
Filled with evil life, filled with
weird experiments, mad cries, hoarse
prayers, and still hoarser answers.
Hundreds of feet had trod its
floors, hundreds of visitors had
come and departed. Some, many in
fact, had not departed. And of
those, legend said that some had
not been men. Blood had run in
a slow, throbbing stream.

"And the house — not Brian Droome
but the house — was an aged person
who had seen all of birth and life
and death and what lay beyond. Here
was the real wizard, the true viewer
of all secrets. This house had
seen it all. It lived, it leered
down from the hill.

"While Brian talked and I auto-
matically replied, I kept thinking
of the house. This great study,
a monstrous room, filled with mass-
ive bookcases and long tables bur-
dened with excess tomes; this great
study with its olden oak furniture,
suddenly seemed in my mind's eye
to be stripped of all extraneous
objects. It became an empty room

again — just a vast wooden expanse
with huge timbers that formed the
rafters overhead.

"I imagined it like that, dusty
and deserted, robbed of all signs
of visible habitation. Still that
damnable impression of life re-
mained. An empty room here was

never empty. The thought agit-

ated me.

"it agitated me so much that

I had to talk about it to Brian
Droome. He smiled, slowly, as I
described my sensations. Then he
spoke .

"'It is a much older house than
even you imagine,' he said in his
deep burring voice. 'I who have
dwelt here all my life still do
not know what further secrets it
may possess. It was built orig-
inally by Cornac Droome, in 1561.
You may be interested in knowing
that at this time the hill on which
it stood supported several Druidic
stones, originally part of the cir-
cle-pattern.

"'Some of these were laid in
the foundations. Others still stand
in the upper cellar. And another
thing, my dear Banks — this house
was not built, it accumulated .

'"It was reared upward for two
stories, that is true. The gables
and eaves and roof were then as
they are now, and the second floor
remains unchanged. But the house
had once only a single cellar. It
was not until the Faith prospered
that we built again. And we built
downward .

"'We built downward, I say. Just
as a church spire rears toward Hea-
ven, we of the Faith appropriately
builded toward our own Kingdom.
First a second cellar, and then
a third; finally passages under
the hill for secret goings-forth
when under duress.

"'When Droome House was entered,
the King's men never discovered
the lower cellars, and that was
well, for they would not have liked
what they saw, being unbelievers
and sacrilegious. Since then we
have been wary of visitors, and
the covens no longer meet; the lower
cellars have fallen into disuse.
Still, we have held many private
ceremonies, for the Droomes had
secret pacts of their own requiring
certain regular rites. But in the
past three hundred years we and
Droome House have lived together
in solitude. "'

Will Banks paused, drew breach.
His lips twitched, he went on:

46 / Pulp Magazine

"I listened eagerly to his admis-
sions concerning the cellars which
1 so desired to inspect. But some-
thing of his discourse puzzled me —
his use of the word 'we' inter-
changeably, so that at times it
meant the family, at times himself,
and at other times it actually seem-
ed to imply the very house!

"He arose and stood by the wall,
and I noted how his fingers softly
caressed the ancient wood. It was
not the caress of a connoisseur
handling a rare tapestry, not the
caress a master bestows upon a dog.
It was the caress of a lover — the
soft stroking motion of understand-
ing and concealed desire.

'"This old house and I under-
stand one another, * 1 Droome burred.
His smile held no humor. 'We take
care of one another, even though
today we are alone. Droome House
protects me even as I guard the
secrets of Droome House.' He stroked
the woodwork gently."

Banks paused again, swallowing
hard before continuing. "By this
time a revulsion had set in. Ei-
ther I was mad, or Brian Droome
was. I wanted my information and
then I wanted to get out. I wanted
to get out, I realized, because
I never wanted to see this house
again. I never wanted even to think
about it again. And it wasn't the
well-known fear of enclosed places —
It wasn't claustrophobia. Doctor.
I just couldn't stand the place,
or rather, the unnatural thoughts
it aroused. But a stubbornness
was in my soul. I did not want
to leave without the information
I had come for.

"I rather bungled things because
of the unreasoning panic I felt,
the unreasoning panic that rose
in my heart as he lighted candles
in the gray room and peopled the
house with walking shadows. I asked
him almost point-blank if I could
visit the cellars. I told him why,
told him about inspecting certain
symbols on the walls. He was stand-
ing by a candelabrum on the wall.

lighting the waxen taper. As it
flared up, a corresponding flare
flamed in his eyes.

"'No, Will Banks,' he said. 'You
cannot see the cellars of Droome
House . *

"Just that and nothing more.
The glare, and the flat refusal.
He gave no reason, he did not hint
of mysteries I had no right to know,
he did not threaten harm should
I insist. No, not Brian Droome.
But the house — the house did! The
house hinted. The house threatened .
The shadows seemed to coalesce on
the walls, and a gathering oppres-
sion fell upon me, seized me in
impalpable tentacles that strangled
the soul. I cannot express it save
in this melodramatic wise — the house
hated me.

"I was silent. I did not ask
again. Brian Droome tugged at his
black beard. His smile signified
that the incident was closed.

"'You'll be going soon,' he said.
'Before that, a drink with me to
stay your journey.'

"He walked out of the room to
prepare the drink. Then a mad im-
pulse seized me. Yet the impulse
had reasons behind it. After all,

I had come to Edinburgh solely for
this end. For years I had studied,
and here lay a clue I sorely needed.
It was my only chance of obtaining
the information I desired, and if
the inscriptions were what I fan-
cied, I could jot them down in a
notebook in a moment. This was
the first reason.

"The second was more complicated.
The house— it threatened me. Like
a mouse in the grip of a cat, I
knew my doom but could not keep
still. I had to squirm, wriggle.
Once deprived of Droome 's company,
even for a moment, panic gripped
me like that cat, pouncing on the
helpless mouse. I felt as though
eyes were watching me, invisible
claws extending on every hand. I
was unable to remain in this room,
I had to move. Of course I could
have followed Brian Droome, but

The Curse of the House / A 7

the other reason impelled me.

"I determined to enter the cel-
lar. I rose quietly, on tiptoe,
went down the hall. It was dark
and still. Now don't misunderstand.
It wasn't haunted . This was not
a mystery-thriller mansion, with
cobwebs and bats and creaking noi-
ses. It was merely dark, and the
dark was old. Light hadn't shone
here for three hundred years, nor
sane laughter broken the stillness.
It was darkness that should have
been dead, but it was alive. And
it oppressed and terrified a thou-
sand times more than the sight of
a ghost.

"I found myself trembling when
I located the cellar door with the
steps below. The candle I had slip-
ped into my pocket before leaving
the study came into my hands, wet
with sweat from my palms. I lit
it and descended the stairs. I
left the house's head and entered
its heart.

"I'll be brief here. The cellar
was huge and there were many rooms,
yet there was no dust. I won't
go any further to describe the signs
of life. There was a chapel and
long walls with the symbols I
sought, and an altar that
undoubtedly must have been one of
the Druid stones Brian referred
to .

"But I didn't notice that. I
never did see what I came to see.
Because in the second chapel room
I kept looking at the rafters. The
long brown beams overhead against
the cellar roof. The long brown
beams with the great hooks on them.
The great steel hooks. The great
steel hooks that held dangling
things! White, dangling things!
Human skeletons!

"Human skeletons that gleamed
as they hung in the breeze from
the opened door. Human skeletons
still so new as to remain hanging
articulated. New skeletons on hooks
on the long brown rafters.

"There was blood on the floor
and strips of flesh, and on the
altar a thing still lay — not cleanly

stripped — yet. There was a vacant
hook waiting, but the thing lay
there on the altar before the black
statue of Satan.

"And I thought of Brian Droome's
mention of private rites still car-
ried on by his family. I thought
of his reticence concerning guests,
and his refusal to allow me entrance
to the cellar. I thought of the
further cellars tha lay below; if
this were the heart of the house
what might lie beyond in the soul ?

"Then I looked back at the danc-
ing skeletons that trod the air
with bony feet and swung their
gleaming arms as they grinned down
on me in mockery. They hung on
the rafters of the House of Droome,
and the House of Droome guarded
them as one guards a secret.

"The House of Droome was with
me in the cellar, watching me, wait-
ing for my reaction. I dared not
show it, I stood there, in fancy
feeling forces quiver about me.
Forces radiating from the blood-
stained walls. Forces bursting
from the outlandish designs cut
in the stones. Forces rising from
the floor, from depths still fur-
ther below.

"Then I felt human eyes. Brian
Droome stood in the doorway."

Banks was now on his feet. His
eyes were staring. He was reliving
the scene.

"I threw the candle and struck
him in the face with the burning
end. Then I snatched up the unmen-
tionable basin from the altar top
and I hurled it at his head. He
went down. I was upon him then,
desperately tearing at his throat.
I had to act first, because when
he had stood there in the doorway
I had seen the knife in his hand.
A cutting-knife, a sawing-knife.
And I remembered the thing still
lying on the altar. That was why
I moved first, and now I was wrest-
ling with him on the stone floor,
trying to wrest the knife away.
I was no match for him.

"He was a giant and he picked
me up and carried me to the center

48 / Pulp Magazine

of the room, carried me toward the
vacant hook that gleamed in the
line of skeletons. Its steel barb
projected outward, and I knew he
meant to hang me there. My hands
fought for that knife as he forced
me down that grinning line of eye-
less watchers. He lifted me high,
until my head was on a level with
his own madly distorted face.

"Then my hands found his wrist.
Desperation gave my strength. I
drove his wrenched arm back, upward.
The knife entered his belly in one
great thrust. The force spun him

around and he fell back. His own
neck caught against the steel hook
hanging from the rafter. As his
great arms released me he was pin-
ioned. Blood gushed from his corded
throat as I plunged the knife home
again and again.

"He died there, on the hook,
and he mumbled, 'The Curse of my
House upon you.' I heard the curse
through red hazes of madness. It
was not dramatically impressed on
my mind — then. Instead, there was

only the gnawing horror of our
struggle and his death; the fear
which caused me to race up those
steps without turning back, grope
through darkness to the study — and
set fire to the house.

"Yes, I burned Droome House,
as one burns a witch or warlock;
as they destroyed wizards in the
olden days. I burned Droome House
so that fire might purify and flame
consume the evil that leaped at
me as I ran out of the blazing dwel-
ling. I swear the flames nearly

trapped me as I ran, although they
had only risen a moment before.
I swear I clawed at the door as
though it were a living thing that
grappled with me, seeking to hold
me back.

"Only when I stood below the
hill and watched the red glow arise
did I remember Brian's words. 'The
Curse of my House upon you.* I
thought of them as the door broke
into a gash of scarlet flame, and
when the people came and clustered

about I still remained, heedless
of danger, until I saw the walls
of that accursed mansion crumble
into glowing ash, and the place
of evil destroyed forever. Then
I knew peace, for a while.

"But now — Doctor — I'm haunted."

Will Banks' voice became a whis-
per.

"I left Edinburgh at once, drop-
ped my studies. I had to, of
course. Fortunately I was not in-
criminated in the affair, but my
nerves had been shattered. I was
on the verge of a true psychotic
condition. I was advised to travel,
regain my health and strength to
fortify my mental outlook. So I
traveled .

"In England I saw it first. I
was spending a week with friends
at Manchester; they had a country
place just outside the industrial
town. We rode about the estate
one afternoon and I lagged behind
to rest my horse. It was about
sunset when I rounded a bend and
saw the hill. The sky was red above
it .

"I saw the hill first. And then,
something grew on it. It grew .
You've read about ghosts. Doctor?
About how they manifest themselves
with ectoplasm? They say it's like
watching a picture come out in the
solution in which a print is devel-
oped. It comes gradually, takes
shape. The colors fill in.

"It was the house that did that!
Droome House! Slowly, wavering
lines grew solid as I recognized
the damnable head that leered out
of the hillside. The window-eyes
were red with slanted sunlight,
and they looked straight at me.
'Come in. Will Banks,' they invited.
I stared for a full minute, blinking
and hoping with all my heart that
the vision would go away. It didn't.

"Then I spurred my horse to a
gallop and fled down the road to
my friends, never . looking back.

"'Who lives on the hill?* I gasp-
ed. Jessens, the banker friend

I was staying with, gave me a look.

The Curse of the House / 49

Even before he spoke, I knew. 'No
one,* he said. ’Trying to pull

my leg, are you?'

"I kept still. But I left the
next day. Went to the Alps. No,
I didn’t see the Droome House on
the Matterhorn. I had a good solid
six months of peace. But on the
train back to Marseilles I looked
out of the window at sunset and —
there it was. 'Come in, Will

Banks,* the eyes invited. I turned
away. That same night I went to
Naples .

"After that it was a race. For
six months, eight months at a time
I seemed safe. But if sunset found
me near a hillside, be it in Norway
or Burma, the damned vision re-
occurred. I’ve put it all down.
Twenty-one times in the past ten
years .

"I grew clever enough about it
all. After the third or fourth
manifestation I realized that this
combination of sunset and hillside
was necessary to produce the image —
for ghost I would not admit it was.
I avoided being out in the open
after dusk began. But in the last
year or so, I've grown more hope-
less .

"Travel has proved fruitless.
I cannot escape it. Naturally,
the story has remained with me
alone. I dared not tell anyone,
and several occasions served to
convince me that nobody saw the
apparition save myself. What has
frightened me is the later devel-
opments of the thing.

"Now, when I force myself to
gaze steadily at the house, I see
it for a longer and longer time.
And each time — this in the last
three years, I have finally com-
puted — that house appears nearer
and nearer to the spot where I am
standing .

"Don't you understand what it
means? Sooner or later I shall
be before the house, at the very
door! And one sunset I may find
myself inside! Inside, under the
long brown rafters with the hooks,
and Brian all bloody and the house

waiting for me. Nearer and nearer.
Yet God knows I'm always on the
road when I see it up there on the
hill. But I get closer to it every
time, and if I enter that place
of ghosts I know something waits
for me; the spirit of that house — "

Will Banks did not stop of his
own accord — I stopped him.

"Shut up!" I rapped sharply.

"What?"

"Shut up!" I repeated. "Now
listen to me. Will Banks. I've
listened to you, and I haven't com-
mented; I expect the same courtesy
in return."

He calmed down at once, as I
knew he would — I was not a psychia-
tirst for nothing, and psychiatrists
know when to let their patients
talk and when to shut them up.

"I've listened to you," I said,
"without any gibes about witchcraft
or fantasies. Now suppose you lis-
ten to my theories with the same
respect. To begin with, you're
suffering from a common obsession.
Nothing serious, just a common,
everyday obsession — a cousin to
the one that makes a habitual drunk-
ard see pink elephants even when
not actually suffering from delirium
tremens . "

Banks bridled. I stared him
down .

"It's undoubtedly a symptom of
a guilt-complex," I said matter-of-
factly. "You killed a man named
Brian Droome. Don't bother to deny
it. We'll admit it. We won't go
into the motives, we won't even
examine justification. You killed
Brian Droome under very peculiar
circumstances. Something about

the house in which the deed occurred
was strongly impressed upon your
susceptible subconscious mind. In
a state of tension following the
killing, you fired the house. In
your subconscious, the destruction
of the house loomed as a greater
crime than the destruction of the
man. Right?"

"It did. Doctor — It did!" Banks
wailed. "The house had a life of
its own, a concentrated life that

was greater than that of a single
person. That house was Brian
Droome, and all his wizard
ancestors. It was Evil, and I
destroyed it. Now it seeks
vengeance . "

"Wait a minute," I drawled. "Wait
— a — minute. You're not telling
me, I'm telling you . All right.
In consequence of your guilty feel-
ings this complex has arisen. This
hallucination is a mental projection
of your own guilt; a symptom of
the weight you felt while keeping
the story a secret.

"Understand? In psychoanalysis
we have come to refer to confession
as a cathartic method whereby the
patient is often relieved of mental
difficulties by merely telling
frankly the story of his troubles.
Confession is good for the soul.

"It may be that all of your prob-
lem has been solved by simply un-
burdening yourself to me here. If
not, I shall endeavor to probe more
deeply. There are some things I
wish to learn regarding your asso-
ciation with witchcraft cults; I
will need to find out certain de-
tails of your mental attitude re-
garding superstitions and the like."

"Don't you see?" Banks muttered.
"You can't understand. This is
real. You must know the supernat-
ural as I do — "

"There is no supernatural," I
stated. "There is merely the .nat-
ural. If one speaks of supernatural
one might as well speak of the sub -
natural , a manifest absurdity. Ex-
tensions of physical laws I grant,
but such things merely occur in
a disordered brain."

"I don't care what you believe,"
Banks said. "Help me, Doctor, only
help me. I can't bear it much long-
er. Believe that. I would never
have come to you otherwise. Even
drugs won't keep me from dreaming.
Wherever I go I see that cursed
house rising up out of hills, grin-
ning at me and beckoning. It gets
nearer and nearer. Last week I
saw it here — in America. Four hun-
dred years ago it rose in Edinburgh;

I burnt it ten years ago. Last
week I saw it. Very close. I was
only fifteen feet away from the
door, and the door was open. Help
me. Doctor — you must!"

"I will. Pack your things.
Banks. You are I are going fishing."

"What?"

"You heard me. Be ready at noon
tomorrow. I'll bring the car a-
round. I have a little lodge up
in the Berkshires, and we can put
in a week or so of loafing around.
Meanwhile I'll get a slant at you.
You'll have to co-operate, of course
— but we'll discuss those details
later. Here now, just do as I say.
And I think if you try a tablespoon-
ful of this in some brandy tonight
before you go to bed you won't have
any more house-parties in your
dreams. Noon tomorrow, then. Good-
by."

It was noon the next day. Banks
wore a gray suit and a nervous
frown. He didn't feel like talking,
that was evident. I chatted gayly,
laughed a lot at my own stories,
and swung the car up through the
hills all afternoon.

I had it all planned out in my
own mind, of course. The first
notes on the case were down. I'd
handle him easily the next few days,
watch him for betraying signs, and
then really get to work from the
analytical side. Today I could

afford to put him at ease.

We drove on. Banks sitting silent
until the shadows came.

"Stop the car."

"Eh?"

"Stop it — it's getting toward

sunset . "

I drove on, unheeding. He shout-
ed. He threatened. I hummed. The
redness deepened in the west. Then
he began to plead.

"Please stop. I don't want to

see it. Go back. Go back — there's
a town we just passed. Let's stay
there. Please. I can't bear to
see it again. Close! Doctor, for
God's sake — "

"We'll arrive in half an hour,"
I said. "Don't be a child. I'm

The Curse of the House / 51

with you."

I piloted the car between the
green borders of the encircling
hills. We headed west against the
fading sun. It shone redly on our
faces, but Banks was white as a
sheet beneath its glare as he cow-
ered in the seat beside me. He
mumbled under his breath. All at
once his body tensed and his fingers
dug into my shoulder with maniacal
strength.

"Stop the car!" he screamed.

I applied the brakes. He was
cracking.

"There it is!" he yelled, with
something that was almost triumph
in his voice. Something masochist-
ic, as though he welcomed the or-
deal to come. "There’s the house,
on that hill. Do you see it?
There ! "

Of course it was just a bare
hillside, some fifty feet back from
the road .

"It’s grinning!" he cried.
"Droome is watching me. Look at
the windows. They wait for me."

I watched him closely as he moved
out of the car. Should I stop him?
No, of course not. Perhaps if he
went through with it this time he'd
throw off his obsession. At any
rate, if I could observe the inci-
dent I might get the clues necessary
to unraveling the threads of his
twisted personality. Let him go.

It was awful to watch, I admit
it. He was screaming about the
"House of Droome" and the "Curse"
as he went up the hillside. Then
I noticed that he was sleep-walking.
Self-hypnotized .

In other words, Banks didn't
know he was moving. He thought
he was still in the car. That ex-
plained his story of how each time
the imaginary house seemed closer.
He unconsciously approached the
focal point of his hallucination,
that was all. Like an automaton
he strained up the green glade.

"I'm at the door," he shouted.
"It's close — God, Doctor — it's
close. The damned thing is creeping
toward me, and the door is open.

What shall I do?"

"Go inside," I called. I wasn't
sure he could hear me in his state,
but he did. I counted on such an
action to break the thread for him;
watched his reactions carefully.

His tall form was silhouetted
against the sunset as he walked.
And now one hand reached out, his
feet rose as though crossing an
actual threshold. It was — I admit
it — horrible to watch. It was the
grotesque pantomime beneath a scar-
let sky, the mimicry of a madman.

"I'm inside now. Inside!" Banks'
voice rose with fear. "I can feel
the house all around me. Alive.
I can — see it!"

Without knowing it, I too, com-
pelled by a fear I could not name,
had left the car. I started for
the hill. "Stay with it. Banks,"
I called. "I'm coming."

"The hall is dusty," Banks mum-
bled. "Dusty. It would be after
ten years of desertion. Ten years
ago it burned. The hall is dusty.
I must see the study."

As I watched in revulsion. Banks
walked precisely along the hilltop,
turned as though in a doorway, and
entered — yes, I said entered — some-
thing that wasn't there.

"I'm here," he muttered. "It's
the same. But it's dark. It's
too dark. And I can feel the house.
I want to get out." He turned again
and made an exit.

" It won* t let me go ! "

That scream sent me scrambling
up the hillside.

"I can't find the door now. I
can't find it, I tell you! It's
locked me in! I can't get out — the
House won't let me. I must see
the cellar first, it says. It says
I must see the cellar."

He turned and walked precisely,
sickeningly. Around a bend. A
hand opened an imaginary door. And
then — did you ever see a man walk
down non-existent stairs? I did.
It halted me on my charge up the
hillside. Will Banks stood on the
hill at sunset walking down cellar
stairs that were not there. And

52 / Pulp Magazine

then he began to shriek.

"I'm here in the cellar, and
the long brown beams are still over-
head. They are here, too. They
are hanging, grinnirig. And why —
it’s you, Brian. On the hook. On
the hook where you died. You're
still bleeding, Brian Droome, after
all these years. Still bleeding
on the floor. Mustn't step in the
blood. Blood. Why are you smiling
at me, Brian? You are smiling,
aren't you? But then — you must
be alive. You can't be. I killed
you. I burned this house. You
can't be alive and — the house can't
be alive. What are you going to
do?"

I had to get up the hill. I
couldn't stand hearing him shriek
such things into the empty air.
I had to stop him, now!

"Brian!" he shrieked. "You're
getting down off the hook! No — the
beam is falling. The house — I must
run — where are the cellar steps?
Where are they? Don't touch me,

Brian — the beam fell down and you're
free, but keep away from me. I
must find the steps. Where are
they? The house is moving. No —

it's crumbling!"

I made the top of the hill, pant-
ing. Banks screamed on, and then
his hands went out.

"God! The house is falling — it's
falling on me. Help! Let me out!
The things on the brown beams are
holding me — let me out! The beams
are falling — help — let me out!"

Suddenly, just before my out-
stretched hands could reach him.
Banks flung up his arms as though
to ward off an impending blow, then
crumpled to the grass.

I knelt at his side. Of course
I did not enter a house to do it.
It was under the dying sun that
I gazed into his pain-contorted
face and saw that he was dead. It
was under a dying sun that I lifted
the body of Will Banks and saw — that
his chest had been crushed as though
by a falling beam .

Copyright © 1989

"They Don't Write 'em Like This Anymore"
by T. E. D. Klein

"The Stones of Destiny" by Alla Ray Morris
"Light in the Jungle" by Carl Jacobi
"Anti" by Hugh B. Cave
"Heliograph" by Carl Jacobi
"The Curse of the House" by Robert Bloch
"Murder in Silhouette" by Frances Wellman

Other material by
Cryptic Publications
Robert M. Price, Editor
107 East James Street
Mount Olive, North Carolina 28365

Cover art by Bruce J. Timm

MURDER IN SILHOUETTE

by Manly Wade Wellman

Datchett knocked on the door of
Apartment 3-G. A muscle-ridged
man of middle size opened cautious-
ly. Over his shoulder Datchett
could see a handsome, curvy blonde
woman and a puffy, bright-eyed man.

"Somebody by the name of Ray
Tyrone phoned my agency for a body-
guard," said Datchett.

"I'm Ray Tyrone," said the puffy
man. "Come in."

Datchett came in. He was lean
and long and his nose had been twice
broken. "I've seen or heard your
name somewhere, Mr. Tyrone," he
said.

"Sure you have," said the muscu-
lar one. "You've seen it at the
front of a hundred pictures. Ray
used to be top cameraman for Non-
pareil Pictures out Hollywood way."

"This is my wife," introduced
Tyrone, indicating the blonde. "She
was a featured player before our
marriage. Her picture name's Minna
Gordon. "

Datchett nodded to her and looked
inquiringly toward the man with
muscles .

"And this is Joe Beard," Tyrone
continued the introductions. "He
used to be a middleweight wrestler,
and lately he was a stunt man and
bit-player for Nonpareil."

"Where does he fit in?" asked
Datchett .

"I fit in all right," said Beard.
"I'm Ray's partner, ain't I, Ray?"

"I guess so," said Tyrone with-
out enthusiasm.

Datchett spoke to the camerman.
"Did my boss tell you his terms?"

"Yes. Fifty dollars, in ad-
vance." Tyrone held out some bills.
Datchett counted them and put them
away.

"Okay," he said. "My name's

Datchett, Jess Datchett. Now then,
what are you folks doing so far
away from your moving pictures?"

"We're hiding," said the blonde,
Minna Gordon.

"From what?"

"Just hiding," smiled Beard.
"We've paid you, detective. Isn't
that enough?"

"No," replied Datchett, "it is
not." He took the wad of money
out of his pocket, tossed it on
the table and started to go.

"Hey!" called Tyrone. "Stick
around, we need you."

"You'd better say what for."

"Oh, give him the yarn, Ray,"
yawned Beard. "it might brighten
his life."

Tyrone sucked his lips nervously.
"Ever hear of Sigrid Holgar?" he
asked .

"The Swedish movie star?"

"Right," said Beard. "The big-
gest lure Nonpareil can furnish."

Tyrone continued. "Holgar acts
kind of shy and distant. Part of
her ballyhoo, you know. Well, one
day I took my camera up to her
place. I knew she takes sun-baths
in the back yard, inside a high
hedge. Just for a gag I sneaked
up and took a bunch of shots. They
were swell." He grinned feebly.
"Fifteen minutes of the most glam-
orous woman in the known world,
lolling around and doing exercises
without a stitch on. How'd you
like to see them?"

"Not a bit," said Datchett. "But
this doesn't sound like a bodyguard
job to me."

"Wait till I finish. About a
week or so later came a big shakeup.
Nonpareil set me out on the wide-
walk. I needed dough — bad. So
I sent word to the studio about

53

54 / Pulp Magazine

that Holgar sun-bath film. Offered
to sell it for two hundred thou.
They sent me this."

He fished out a wallet and took
from it a folded letter. Datchett
spread it out. It had a Nonpareil
Studios letterhead and carried two
typewritten sentences:

"We'll pay ten thousand dollars
to keep our star from being cheap-
ened. Take it or leave it."

"Say," said Tyrone. "Ten grand
is chicken feed. I could clean
up a million showing that thing
at stag parties, and I called them
up and told them so."

"Why don't you go after that
million, then?" asked Datchett.

"Because, a couple of days later,
when the three of us were talking
it over at my place — "

"The three of you?" repeated
the detective. "When did these
others get in on it?"

"Minna was in from the first.
She's my wife, you know. Joe came
along about the time I made Nonpar-
eil the offer."

"Yes. I figured Ray needed a
strong man's help," contributed
Beard, and smiled at Minna Gordon.

"Anyway," Tyrone resumed, "I
got a phone call. It was from Non-
pareil, or said it was. They weren't
going to pay my price. They told
me to send the thing to the studios,
or a bunch of torpedoes would give
me a bellyful of lead."

"Sure it was Nonpareil?" sug-
gested Datchett.

"Not dead sure, but almost. It
might be Holgar 's manager, or a
close friend. Or just a crank.
Or somebody else trying to get pos-
session of it. Whoever it was meant
business."

"And that's why you're here?"
prompted Datchett.

"Yes. We lammed away as far
as we could, figuring to lay low
till a lawyer or somebody could
make a real deal for the pictures.
But they traced us and followed
us. They found we took this apart-
ment a couple of days ago. About
an hour back the phone rang and

I answered it." His lips twitched.
"They don't intend to pay off, or
even spare us if we turn the film
over. Their trouble bums said that
they'd call here tonight and rub
me out."

"Why not call the cops?" sug-
gested Datchett.

"And lose the film, maybe? We
hope to stick it out this night
and get gone in the morning. Now,
Mr. — Datchett' s your name, isn't
it? — will you stay with the job?"
He picked up the money from the
table and offered it.

"Okay," said Datchett. "It's
the boss' idea, anyway."

He took the money and counted
it again.

"Careful, ain't you?" snickered
Beard.

Datchett gave him a sleety look.
"Very," he said.

He looked around the big room.
It was lighted by a floor lamp,
comfortably furnished. The doorway
to the hall was stout and had a
good patent lock. Big windows open-
ed onto an alley, with a fire escape
climbing up to one of them from
the ground three stories down. A
smaller door opened onto a closet
with a roll-away bed.

"I sleep there," said Beard.

Another door led to a small hall-
way, off of which opened a bathroom,
a kitchenette and a bedroom. All
of these rooms had windows but no
fire escapes. Tyrone followed Dat-
chett on his tour, talking. As
they went into the kitchenette he
came close to Datchett and spoke
in a low, secretive voice.

"Stick by me," he said, "and
there'll be some extra dough in
it for you."

"Why isn't that husky lad Beard
enough bodyguard?" Datchett asked.

"I don't really trust Beard.
All he's interested in is half the
take on the film."

Datchett did not reply. He start-
ed back to the front room. A nervous
laugh sounded and he saw Minna Gor-
don and Beard step quickly apart.

Murder in Silhouette / 55

They had been in each other’s arms.
Tyrone, behind, had not seen.

"Listen,” Datchett addressed
the three. "The only ways into
this place are by the door, which
can be locked, and by the window
with the fire escape, which can
be watched. If these movie guys,
or whoever they are, have really
put a bunch of guns on your trail,
my advice is to stick here all
night."

"That's what we figure on," said
Beard .

They all sat down. Datchett
took a seat next to the window where
the fire escape was located. It
was almost dark outside.

"How about a few cards?" invited
Minna Gordon.

"You three can play," said Dat-
chett. "I'm here to bodyguard.

If there's any trouble, I want to
be ready to get in at the start
of it."

The blonde commenced shuffling
the cards. Tyrone strolled over
to Datchett and peered out of the
window.

"Better get back into the room,"
Datchett told him. "A gun guy out
there would be hard to see from
up here, and he could pick you off
like an apple from a tree."

"Just what I was thinking," re-
plied Tyrone. "A man could practic-
ally climb up to this window before
we knew he was there. I've got
a suggestion."

"Such as what?"

"Listen," said Tyrone. "The
only place to watch the window is
from outside."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Suppose we keep the hall
door locked and let nobody in or
out. Then the only way in would
be the window. And you, Datchett,
would stay in the alley and have
the difference on anybody who tried
to come up from the fire escape."

"And you could shoot him where
he was biggest, detective," added
Beard, looking up from his cards.

If we could burn down some tough

baby it might quiet this killing
talk."

"I'll shoot when it's time,"
said Datchett. "There's merit in
what you say, Tyrone." He got up,
and Tyrone pulled down the white
shade on the window. "I'm going
down," Datchett went on. "Don't
let anybody in or out unless you
hear my voice."

He went out into the hall. Be-
hind him he heard the lock snap.

He descended to the ground and
went out a side door into the alley,
crossed it and found an upturned
barrel to sit on. He spotted the
window of Apartment 3-G up above
and watched it idly, fumbling for
a cigarette. It wouldn't be tough
to win his fee, though it would
be boring, he reflected. Maybe
this lardy little Tyrone was only
imagining danger. Those phone calls
might be a joke. But Datchett had
the fifty dollars in his pocket.
He'd do a night's sentry duty and
help the trio catch a train in the
morning .

He lolled and thought and smoked.
Half a package of cigarettes later
he saw the light in the apartment
blink out. He rose quickly, feeling
for the big gun in his armpit. But
a moment later the light came on
again. After a little while he
saw a silhouette on the curtain,
recognizable as Tyrone. The camera-
man twitched the curtain back, rais-
ed the window and crawled out on
the fire escape. He descended and,
seeing Datchett in the gloom, came
toward him.

"If you're really in danger,"
said Datchett, "you're an awful
fool to take chances showing up
against a lighted window."

"I wanted to get down here with
you," replied Tyrone. "I feel safer.
And I didn't want to go down through
the apartment — there might be some-
one laying for me in the hall. So
I just climbed out of the window."

"You're easier to kill outside
than in," reminded Datchett.

"That's not true. The killer

56 / Pulp Magazine

would be heading for the apartment,
not me. He wouldn't come out here
to find me."

"How about Beard and your wife?
Do they want to come down here?"

"They're trying to say they're
not scared," said Tyrone. "Just
now they said that they only half
believe those phone calls."

"I only half believe them my-
self," said Datchett.

Tyrone looked at him sharply.

"Oh, all right, all right," con-
ceded Datchett. "You've paid me
and here I am at work. But don't
you think the idea's a little batty
yourself?"

"Say, Datchett," said Tyrone,
"a big company like Nonpareil is
full of tough birds who would as
soon have you or me or anybody kill-
ed as think about it. And mind
you, these Holgar pictures are plen-
ty hot. A flash of them would make
a fool out of her — ruin her as a
star. Why wouldn't they be ready
to kill to stop it?"

"You sound as if you were on
their side."

"Not for a minute. But I get
their idea. That's why I've fooled
them this far along." Tyrone grin-
ned proudly, then grew serious
again. "Say, Datchett, what do you
think of Joe Beard?"

"I don't know him well enough
to think."

"Do you imagine," and Tyrone's
voice was crafty, "that there's
anything between him and Minna?"

Datchett looked at him without
answering .

"Beard and she stepped out a
lot before I married her," said
Tyrone. "They worked in some pic-
tures together and liked each other
fine. When Beard muscled in on
us — you've guessed that he did just
that — I wondered if he didn't want
something more than half the dough
for that Holgar film. Maybe he's
still going for Minna."

"I don't do that kind of detec-
tive work," grunted Datchett.

"I guess I'd better wait and

be sure," said Tyrone. "I don't
want to kick up a row. Not with
Joe and Minna."

Datchett got up to stretch his
legs. Tyrone perched on the barrel.
"Say, detective," he said.

Datchett turned his back on the
apartment house and faced the cam-
eraman. "What?"

"How'd you like to throw in with
me on peddling the film? It's worth
big dough, I tell you. You could
represent me to the Nonpareil peo-
ple, while I lay low somewhere.
If they couldn't find me they
couldn't scare me. They'd have to
come through, and plenty."

"Nothing doing," snorted Dat-
chett. "What do you think I am?"

But Tyrone was suddenly looking
aloft, at the lighted window both
had stopped watching. His eyes
and mouth opened wide. "Datchett!"
he exclaimed. "Look there!"

Against the drawn shade two shad-
ows wrestled back and forth. Even
as Datchett whirled and looked,
they fell apart. One, in the very
center of the lighted curtain and
looming large, was surely Joe Beard.
His chest was heaving, his hands
poised to attack or defend. Next
moment the two figures grappled
again. Datchett, transfixed, saw
Beard's hands flail at his assail-
ant, saw the other's arm fly back
with a knife and then strike home.
Beard staggered, slumped down. Even
as Datchett charged the fire escape
the lights went out.

"Datchett, Datchett!" Tyrone
was hanging to the detective's el-
bow. "Don't leave me alone!"

Datchett handed him the gun.
"Up the stairs through the house,"
he crisped. "Catch anyone who tries
to come out that way."

Tyrone stared at the gun as if
he had never seen one before. Then
he scurried in at the side door.
Datchett scrambled up the fire es-
cape, gained the first landing,
the second, almost fell up the third
flight and was at the window.

Murder in Silhouette / 57

All was dark inside. He jerked
a flashlight from his hip pocket,
held it ready in one hand. The
sash was up, just as Tyrone had
left it. Datchett reached in,
grabbed the curtain by the bottom
and jerked it quickly. As it flew
up he stabbed the flash beam into
the room. He circled the walls
quickly, lit up each corner in turn,
then quartered the floor with the
finger of radiance. A still form
lay on the rug. Datchett bounded
in.

A moment later the door burst
open. Tyrone was there. He fumbled
for a switch and lighted a cluster
of bulbs on the ceiling. "The door
was unlocked he panted. "Somebody
got in or out."

In the center of the rug lay
Joe Beard, arms and legs outflung,
blank face upward. The hilt of
a knife jutted from his chest and
blood soaked the front of his coat.
Under him lay the fallen floor lamp,
its extension cord jerked from the
socket .

Datchett knelt beside Beard,
felt the damp fabric over his heart,
then twitched the eyelids. "Dead,"
he pronounced.

"Dead?" echoed Tyrone. Then,
as he looked around, "Where's
Minna?"

More blood was spattered on the
rug near Beard, spots of it leading
like a trail toward the hall to
the bathroom. Tyrone followed it,
holding Datchett' s gun ready. He
found another switch, snapped it.
The hall lighted up and so did the
bathroom beyond. Tyrone exclaimed
in alarm. Datchett hurried to him.

"It's Minna," said Tyrone. The
blonde lay twisted on the tiled
floor of the bathroom. Her nose
trickled blood. As they bent over
her she moaned and quivered. Dat-
chett turned on a faucet, scooped
handfuls of cold water into her
face. She moaned again, jerked

convulsively and looked up. She
began to cry.

Tyrone raised her in his arms.
Hatchett took the gun from his limp

hand and poked into bedroom, kit-
chenette and closet. Nobody was
in any of them. He returned to
the front room, studying the body
of Beard closely.

Tyrone came back after him, help-
ing Minna. Her nose was out of
plumb and she trembled violently.

"Call the police," said Tyrone.
"Let's catch the heels who did
this . "

"You ought to have called them
before this happened," said Dat-
chett. He picked up the phone and
dialed a number. "Give me Captain
Scaife, please," he told the man
who answered. Then, after a moment,
"Hello, Cap. Datchett. Listen,
I've got something that might inter-
est you. Are you busy?" He gave
the street and apartment numbers.
"No, no hurry. Half an hour or
forty-five minutes from now will
be soon enough. Coming up yourself?
I'll be seeing you, copper."

He hung up the receiver.

"What do you mean, no hurry?"
demanded Tyrone truculently.

"We want to look around before
a lot of cops get in here and muddle
things up," replied Datchett. "What
about your film? Still got it?"

Tyrone pulled a suitcase from
under the davenport and rummaged
in it. "It's here," he reported.

Minna was sitting by a table.
Datchett touched her nose carefully
and she squealed in pain. "Not
broken," announced Datchett. "It's
swollen up like Jimmy Durante 's
schnozzle, but it'll be all right
in a few days. Got any liquor,
Tyrone? A shot would do her good."

Tyrone went to the kitchen and
brought back a bottle. Minna drew
the cork with her teeth and took
a generous swig. It made her cheeks
glow. "All right, what happened?"
asked Datchett.

But Minna was looking at Beard
for the first time since she had
come from the bathroom. Her eyes
grew round and she screamed. Next
moment she flopped down beside the
body. "Joe! Joe!" she called to
it. She looked up wildly. "They

58 / Pulp Magazine

killed him!" she wailed.

Tyrone stared at her stonily.
"Then it's true," he mumbled. "She
and Joe were cheating on me."

"Sure it's true," Datchett snap-
ped at him. "I saw them mauling
each other. How have you missed
it up to now?" He put out a hand
and lifted Minna back to her chair.
"Pull yourself together," he com-
manded her. "What happened?"

She goggled with dead eyes but
finally spoke. "I was alone — in
here," she said.

"In here? You mean, in this
front room?"

"Yes. That is, I think so — my
head isn't clear yet. Something
hit me back of the ear and I went
down. That's all."

"Went down on your face and
bumped your nose?"

"She must have," interposed Ty-
rone, pointing to the stained rug.
"There's the trail of blood that
leads to the bath."

"There's a big plenty of it,"
said Datchett. "What was going
on at that time, Minna? How about
Beard?"

"Joe was in the back somewhere,"
said Minna. "In the bedroom or
the bathroom. This — " She ges-
tured at the body. "It hadn't hap-
pened yet."

"You don't remember a fight?"
persisted Datchett.

"No. Only that crack I got on
the head."

"How long was this after Tyrone
got out of the window and came down
to me?"

"I didn't know he did that,"
Minna said.

"Sure you don't," sneered Tyrone.
"You weren't paying attention to
anybody but Joe Beard."

Minna looked at Tyrone and half
grimaced in scorn, then gasped with
the pain of her sore facial muscles.

"Settle your fuss some other
time," said Datchett. "You don't
recall creeping into the bathroom,
Minna?"

"No, nor coming out. I woke
up in here."

"Must have been her subconscious
mind," volunteered Tyrone again,
forgetting his grievance of a moment
ago. "The killer must have knocked
her down and then, when the fight
with Joe started, she still had
the idea of getting away. She crawl-
ed as far as she could."

"One thing more," Datchett said
to Minna. "Was the door locked?"

"Seems as if it was."

Datchett looked at the open win-
dow, at the position of Beard's
body, then across at the door. "He
must have sneaked up the fire escape
while Tyrone and I were talking,"
he hazarded. "Then he tore out
the door after killing Beard." He
stooped above the corpse, examining
the position of the fallen floor
lamp under it.

"Hey!" he exclaimed suddenly.
"There's something screwy about
this."

"Eh?" said Tyrone.

Datchett pointed. "See where
Beard's feet are? They mark the
very spot where he must have been
standing. He's lying on his back,
with the lamp pinned under him.
But if he knocked it down, its foot
would be close to his feet. It
would have been standing close to
him, see? But the lamp's foot is
pointing the opposite direction,

beyond his head and to one side.
It must have been standing a good
eight feet away. When Beard fell
he couldn't have landed anywhere
near it, let alone pull it down
under him."

He turned to look sharply at

Tyrone, then at Minna. She was
still groggy. "Better take another

drink," he said to her.

She nodded, took the bottle from
the table beside her and swigged
at it again. He liquor seemed to

snap her out of the last of her
daze .

"I've got it," said Tyrone sud-
denly. "The lamp was knocked over
before Beard was stabbed."

Murder in Silhouette / 59

But Datchett shook his head.
"No. If you* 11 remember, the light
went out just as Beard went down.
And the ceiling lights weren’t on."
He seemed to notice for the first
time that he held his gun in his
hand. He laid it carefully on the
table beside Minna’s bottle, then
knelt to pick up the detached plug
at the end of the lamp cord. "See
this? It was lying in the middle
of the rug, nowhere near any socket
from which it might pull. That
means the lamp was planted where
it was, not just knocked loose."
He faced the two again. "This thing
was framed," he said, "and one of
you framed it."

Minna swore a single startled
oath. Tyrone shook his head in-
credulously.

"Where is the lamp socket?" was
Datchett *s next demand.

"I don't know," said Minna.

Tyrone looked around the room,
then pointed. "Over there, I think,
under the fringe of the rug next
the wall."

Datchett went and scraped the
rug back with his foot. "No socket
here," he announced. "Somebody's
trying to lie out of this."

"Put up your hands, Datchett,"
commanded Tyrone sharply.

The detective looked around.
Tyrone had taken the gun from the
table and was levelling it.

"Easy, Datchett, or you'll get
every slug in this gun." Tyrone
yanked the suitcase from under the
davenport again and began backing
toward the door. "I'm getting out.
You were smart enough to see I did
the killing, but you're not smart
enough to figure how or to keep
me from getting away. The socket's
really over on this side of the
room. Look at it when I'm gone
and follow what you find there.
You'll learn something new in the
murder line."

Datchett took a quick step toward
him .

"I'll kill you!" warned Tyrone.

"Might as well kill two as — "

Datchett rushed and the cameraman
pulled the trigger. A dead click
sounded, then Datchett had him.
Tyrone tried to club with the gun,
but Datchett twisted it from his
hand. Then he struck Tyrone's puffy
jowl with his fist, knocking him
down. Datchett grabbed his collar
and yanked him to his feet, then
hurled him into a chair.

"Going to tell how you killed
Beard?" gritted the detective.

Tyrone tried to get up, but Dat-
chett shoved him back and struck
him a blow on the mouth. "Going
to tell?" he repeated, and struck
again. Blood came, and Minna

screamed. Once more Datchett drew
back his fist.

"I'll come clean," choked Tyrone.
"I knew Beard was making a play
for Minna. I didn't let on, but
I wasn't going to share her, or
the dough from the film, either.
So I framed this whole thing. The
ten grand offer from Nonpareil was
on the up and up, and then I made
up the story about the phone calls.
Beard and Minna didn't scare easy,
but I talked them into coming out
here. I figured to do to job as
far from Hollywood as possible.
It would give me time to work into
the clear while cops were following
bum leads back to California.

"As soon as you went downstairs
a while ago I got my chance to jump
Beard in the bathroom and stick
a knife into him. Then I came back
in here, sneaked up behind Minna
and batted her down. After dragging
Beard in I saw he'd left smears
of blood, so I took Minna into the
bathroom and bloodied her nose to
make it look right."

"You fat slob!" Minna spat. "No
wonder I couldn't remember being
in there."

"Now about those shadows on the
blind?" questioned Datchett. "Were
they movie stuff or something?"

"Just that," nodded Tyrone. "I'd
taken pictures of Beard at work,
and one of them, a knife fight in

60 / Pulp Magazine

silhouette in front of a lighted
screen, gave me the whole idea.
I fetched that chunk of film along.
After I'd finished with Beard and
Minna and unlocked the door to give
the fake murderer an out, I rigged
up a little portable projector we
brought along. I needed the room
dark for the picture and afterward,
so I knocked over the lamp and laid
it under Joe. Then I connected
the projector to the socket with
the cord under the rug. There was
only a moment when the place was
dark, then the blind was lighted
up like a screen. I hid the pro-
jector behind the davenport cushions
yonder. The light was blank white
for a little while — I'd timed it
for that, to give me a chance to
get away — before the fight stuff
showed up. When it was through
running, the projector light went
off automatically."

Datchett pulled aside the daven-
port cushions and revealed the pro-
jector. "And I was to be your alibi
witness?" he smiled. "Cheap at
fifty bucks."

Tyrone rubbed his battered face.
"How did you catch on?" he asked
querulously.

"Several ways. You were so
scared at first, then you came out-
side without a tremble. I told
you then I only half believed you.
Then, when I went up the fire es-
cape and you busted in and said
the door was unlocked, I wondered
again. You see, I'd made that climb
in close to record time, and it
was hard to figure how a killer
could find and unlock a door in

a dark, unknown apartment in time
to get away. And you were less
scared than ever, didn't even lock
the door, though the killer was
supposed to be just gone and maybe
coming back. As for the blood on
the rug, there was too much of it
for Minna's nose to shed. And fi-
nally that lamp, tipped over by
a falling body that couldn't have
dropped anywhere within reach of it.

"That was enough to argue that
it was a frameup, and it might be
either Minna, who could have given
herself a sock for an alibi, or
you. I tried a test. First I got
another drink into Minna to give
her strength to make a break. I
put my gun — unloading it first with-
out either of you noticing — and
putting it where Minna or you could
reach It. Then I began making the
spot so hot that the guilty party
would get panicky and come into

the open."

"You aren't as bright as you

think you are," snarled Tyrone.

"You might have strung along with
me and picked up several grand.

As it is, you get nothing."

Datchett smiled. "Not as bad

as that. You've paid my fee. And
I'm also going to take over this

suitcase of yours, with the Holgar
sun-bath film. According to that
letter you showed me. Nonpareil

will pay a reasonable cash reward
for it."

A knock sounded at the door.

Datchett opened it.

"Come in. Captain Scaife," he
said. "Your job's all done for